If I Die Before I Wake
by RipredtheGnawer
Summary: Ladies and Gentlemen, place your bets on this year's tributes! Who will survive the bloodbath and go home alive? Someone from Twelve, like last year? Or perhaps Four? Step on up, and let the Fifty-first Hunger Games Begin! CLOSED
1. tribute form

Summer in Panem is not a time for vacations and parties, or even for smiles. Each summer means twenty-three more children dead, and twenty-four families that will never be quite whole again. Everybody knows that this is wrong, and yet, in fifty-one years, nobody has ever spoken up.

These frightened citizens are doomed to remain this way, huddled in terrified clusters like sheep in a field, forever.

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><p>OKAY, people. This is how it's going to work.<p>

**1. You fill out the form right here:**

Name:

Age:

District:

Personality:

Appearance:

**Read BEFORE answering: please don't talk about the little tiny scar behind your tribute's ear. Because, honestly, I don't care. And it will never, ever be mentioned in the story.**

History/Background:

Family:

Friends:

Strengths/Weapons:

Weaknesses/Phobias/Pet Peeves:

Reaping Outfit:

Chariot Outfit:

Interview Outfit:

Romance (if any):

**Read BEFORE answering: do not tell me who you want your tribute to make out with. Just tell me if you'd be alright, were I to make your tribute romantically inclined towards someone else.**

Alliance (if any):

**Read BEFORE answering: the same as the romance slot.**

Token (if any, but please tell me what you want. You don't _need_ a token):**  
><strong>

**2. You submit this form as a review.**

**3. You read the story and do not ask me to put your tribute in if its slot has already been filled. Because seriously, people, that's the most frustrating thing I can think of right now, besides not getting any submissions at all.**

I _highly_ recommend taking a peek at FoalyWinsForever's "A Guide to Not Making Your Tribute Suck" before submitting a tribute. It's funny and has a lot of good points, particularly in the third chapter. Also, it's not very long so it shouldn't be a big hassle.

One last thing: I'll be in Washington D.C. from June 11 until the 25th at the latest, so if I don't update, don't freak out. But I'll see if I can do something in that time anyways, so maybe you'll have one or two updates.

~RipredtheGnawer


	2. first list

As the Reaping draws near, the Capitol citizens eagerly watch reruns of last years' Games, the fiftieth-the Quarter Quell. But in the districts, the atmosphere is tense and monotonous. They know what is coming, what will happen. And they know that they can do nothing to stop it.

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><p>Thanks very much, to you first seven reviewers! Seriously, my gratitude is overwhelming. I was worried (as most SYOT authors probably are) that there wouldn't be any submissions. But you guys proved me wrong!<p>

The list is as follows:

**District 1**

GIRL:

BOY:

**District 2**

GIRL:

BOY

**District 3**

GIRL: Cieera Klaine, age 13 {dolphinxxgirlxx}

BOY:

**District 4**

GIRL:

BOY:

**District 5**

GIRL:

BOY:

**District 6**

GIRL:

BOY:

**District 7**

GIRL: Holly Aspen, age 13 {Ociana}

BOY:

**District 8**

GIRL:

BOY: Darwin Leblanc, age 13 {Retrak52-IAmOmicron}

**District 9**

GIRL:

BOY: Max Tannon, age 13 {katzsoa}

**District 10**

GIRL: Fennel Moore, age 15 {Syeira-la}

BOY:

**District 11**

GIRL: Riley Rynne, age 16 {I'm busy saving the world}

BOY:

**District 12**

GIRL:

BOY:

**Response to Ociana's review: Oh my Mockingjay, I forgot to put in a slot for what each tribute's token is. You're right, that's important. I've fixed that on the form.**

_To anyone else who already submitted a tribute: if you have a token in mind, and didn't put that in your review, PM me!_

~Ripred_  
><em>


	3. second list

It's becoming a last-minute dash to tell everyone how much they're loved, how important they are in the fabric of each district. Time is running out for twenty-three children. Everyone is wondering: who will die? Who will never come home? And who will return as only a shell of their former self? It's enough to drive anyone crazy.

The Capitol is frenzied with preparations for this years' Games. The Quarter Quell was such a success, and citizens are expecting something big to rival that excitement. What drama will play out on their television screens for the next month?

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><p>Wow, guys! This is crazy. If you submit any faster, my hands will actually fall off of my arms. And that would be a <em>very bad thing<em> with the Global Studies final tomorrow.

However, I'm ecstatic that I've got so many of the tributes filled!It's really wonderful.

Here's the updated list, once again:

**District 1**

GIRL:

BOY:

**District 2**

GIRL: Atlantis Waterfall, age 18 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY:

**District 3**

GIRL: Cieera Klaine, age 13 {dolphinxxgirlxx}

BOY:

**District 4**

GIRL: Charlotte Dove, age 15 {violetrose101}

BOY:

**District 5**

GIRL: Eia Days, age 15 {Arcticmist}

BOY: Henry Loom, age 15 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

**District 6**

GIRL: Sylvia Frost, age 17 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY:

**District 7**

GIRL: {reserved for Ociana's unnamed tribute}

BOY:

**District 8**

GIRL:

BOY: Darwin Leblanc, age 13 {Retrak52-IAmOmicron}

**District 9**

GIRL: Rohan Tahti, age 16 {owlchicka}

BOY: Max Tannon, age 13 {katzsoa}

**District 10**

GIRL: Fennel Moore, age 15 {Syeira-la}

BOY:

**District 11**

GIRL: Riley Rynne, age 16 {I'm busy saving the world}

BOY:

**District 12**

GIRL:

BOY:

_One more thing I'd like to say_: Please, please, **please check the reviews before you submit!** If someone has already submitted a tribute for an empty slot since I've updated this list, your tribute _will not be picked_ and I'll have to switch it to another district. Do me a favor and just take a peek so that I don't get double submissions.


	4. third list

*insert story here, since it's against the rules to have just an author's note. but I don't care, since I've already got 3 of 'em)

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><p>Thanks everybody, slots are filling up faster than I thought possible! Keep up the good work, and here's the updated list:<p>

**District 1**

GIRL: Desiree Gem, age 14 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY:

**District 2**

GIRL: Iris Richardson, age 18 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY: Brock Davies, age 17 {POPCORN}

**District 3**

GIRL: Cieera Klaine, age 13 {dolphinxxgirlxx}

BOY: Isaac Seder, age 18 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

**District 4**

GIRL: Charlotte Dove, age 15 {violetrose101}

BOY:

**District 5**

GIRL: Eia Days, age 15 {Arcticmist}

BOY: Henry Loom, age 15 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

**District 6**

GIRL: Sylvia Frost, age 17 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY:

**District 7**

GIRL: Rose Ivory, age 12 {Ociana}

BOY:

**District 8**

GIRL:

BOY: Darwin Leblanc, age 13 {Retrak52-IAmOmicron}

**District 9**

GIRL: Rohan Tahti, age 16 {owlchicka}

BOY: Max Tannon, age 13 {katzsoa}

**District 10**

GIRL: Fennel Moore, age 15 {Syeira-la}

BOY:

**District 11**

GIRL: Riley Rynne, age 16 {I'm busy saving the world}

BOY:

**District 12**

GIRL: Miaka Florence, age 15 {Tybee10}

BOY:

**_ONLY EIGHT PLACES LEFT!_**


	5. fourth list

*still not putting a story here, that's the _next_ chapter*

* * *

><p>Oh my goodness. There are only three spots left. AHH! This is going to be <em>so much <strong>fun<strong>!_

Here's the most recent list:

**District 1**

GIRL: Desiree Gem, age 14 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY: Jace Avery, age 14 {owlchicka}

**District 2**

GIRL: Iris Richardson, age 18 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY: Brock Davies, age 17 {POPCORN}

**District 3**

GIRL: Cieera Klaine, age 13 {dolphinxxgirlxx}

BOY: Isaac Seder, age 18 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

**District 4**

GIRL: Charlotte Dove, age 15 {violetrose101}

BOY: Pike Mathewes, age 17 {arcticmist}

**District 5**

GIRL: Eia Days, age 15 {Arcticmist}

BOY: Henry Loom, age 15 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

**District 6**

GIRL: Sylvia Frost, age 17 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY: Jayden Brown, age 16 {Tybee10}

**District 7**

GIRL: Rose Ivory, age 12 {Ociana}

BOY:

**District 8**

GIRL: Bethanne "Anne" Swartz, age 13 {Arcticmist}

BOY: Darwin Leblanc, age 13 {Retrak52-IAmOmicron}

**District 9**

GIRL: Rohan Tahti, age 16 {owlchicka}

BOY: Max Tannon, age 13 {katzsoa}

**District 10**

GIRL: Fennel Moore, age 15 {Syeira-la}

BOY:

**District 11**

GIRL: Riley Rynne, age 16 {I'm busy saving the world}

BOY:

**District 12**

GIRL: Miaka Florence, age 15 {Tybee10}

BOY: Toth Spronk, age 16 {arcticmist}

* * *

><p>I'm thinking-<em>thinking,<em> mind you-that the next chapter will be the District 1 reapings! So excited... :)


	6. fifth and final list

*still not putting a story here*

* * *

><p><strong><em><span>FINAL LIST OF TRIBBIES<span>_**

Yeah, I just called them tribbies. Kind of like Trekkies, only better (no offense if you happen to be a trekkie).

I was planning to update on Thursday, which is the last day of 8th grade for me, but since I'm going to DC on Saturday, my schedule will be squooshed. Hence, this list is here now.

YES, Zaire Lest (D11) is my own creation. I promise to kill him. He won't win. I just want that spot _filled_. _Now_.

**District 1**

GIRL: Desiree Gem, age 14 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY: Jace Avery, age 14 {owlchicka}

**District 2**

GIRL: Iris Richardson, age 18 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY: Brock Davies, age 17 {POPCORN}

**District 3**

GIRL: Cieera Klaine, age 13 {dolphinxxgirlxx}

BOY: Isaac Seder, age 18 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

**District 4**

GIRL: Charlotte Dove, age 15 {violetrose101}

BOY: Pike Mathewes, age 17 {arcticmist}

**District 5**

GIRL: Eia Days, age 15 {Arcticmist}

BOY: Henry Loom, age 15 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

**District 6**

GIRL: Sylvia Frost, age 17 {PleaseUseAnotherName}

BOY: Jordan {Tybee10}

**District 7**

GIRL: Rose Ivory, age 12 {Ociana}

BOY: Jay Rhine, age 14 {arcticmist}

**District 8**

GIRL: Bethanne "Anne" Swartz, age 13 {Arcticmist}

BOY: Darwin Leblanc, age 13 {Retrak52-IAmOmicron}

**District 9**

GIRL: Rohan Tahti, age 16 {owlchicka}

BOY: Max Tannon, age 13 {katzsoa}

**District 10**

GIRL: Fennel Moore, age 15 {Syeira-la}

BOY: Colton McKenzie, age 16 {Tybee10}

**District 11**

GIRL: Riley Rynne, age 16 {I'm busy saving the world}

BOY: Zaire Lest, age 12 {RipredtheGnawer}

**District 12**

GIRL: Miaka Florence, age 15 {Tybee10}

BOY: Toth Spronk, age 16 {arcticmist}

* * *

><p>Thank you to all wonderful submitters:<p>

**PleaseUseAnotherName**

**owlchicka**

**POPCORN**

**dolphinxxgirlxx**

**violetrose101**

**arcticmist**

**Tybee10**

**Ociana**

**Retrak52-IAmOmicron**

**katzsoa**

**Syeira-la**

**I'm Busy Saving the World**

You're all very much appreciated!


	7. District 1 Reapings

**A/N: Here it is, the first real chapter of "If I Die Before I Wake!" Thanks to everyone who submitted, and now you can see two of the characters come to life! By the way, I'm sorry Jace's section is so short. His interview will _definitely_ make up for it!**

* * *

><p><em>District 1 reapings: Desiree Gem<em>

The first thing that I see when I wake up is my algebra textbook, right where I left it last night: on the floor. Unfortunately, I see it too late, and since I'm already getting out of bed, I end up toppling forward and smacking my head on my bedside table. This means that the first thing I _feel_ is a throbbing ache in my skull.

Perfect.

I stomp down the stairs, not caring that everyone else is still asleep. They'd better get up soon, though, or they'll miss the Reaping. As a family of Victors, that's one thing that we definitely can't afford to do.

As I'm waiting for the toast to pop out of the toaster, Saul appears, no doubt awakened by the racket I've made. Tousle-haired and groggy, he blinks at me in sleepy confusion.

"It's Friday, right?" he asks.

"Duh. And yesterday was Thursday. Tomorrow will be Saturday. Just like every week." My brother can be so _dumb_.

"So there won't be any training tonight," he concludes, crestfallen. Since he turned ten, he's been hanging out in the Training Stations whenever he can. I usually couldn't care less about what he does or where he goes, but I have to admit that it's a little gratifying to see him following my example.

It's not long before everyone's in the kitchen. My parents are wide-awake, just as I wish I weren't, and their tense expressions remind me that today's the Reaping. My heart beats faster with excitement. I've been waiting for this day for months—how could I have forgotten? The _honor_, the _privilege_, everything!

"Reaping day," I hum as I put my dirty dishes in the sink.

"Desiree." My mother's voice is harsher than I've heard it in a while; usually she only sounds like this when I've gotten in trouble. "It's not something to celebrate."

I turn back around. The looks on my mother and father's faces are difficult to read. "I know that," I lie. As I head back upstairs, I wink at Saul. We both know that our parents are too old-fashioned.

Since District 1 has the earliest Reapings out of all twelve, I have to hurry. I've picked out a red dress, tiny little thing, especially for today. Despite knowing that I _should_ be quick, it takes me a half hour to get ready. By the time my makeup is perfect and my hair is smoothed down the right way, it's eight-fifteen.

My family is waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, not bothering to hide their impatience. Saul glares at me and tells me that I've made us all late. I don't even bother to respond.

In the streets, we join the flood of people heading for the square.

"Hey! Desiree!"

I turn to see my friend Umbra waving me over. She's standing arm in arm with Vivi, her twin sister. Both of them have white-blonde hair, but that's about where the similarities end. Umbra is stockier and quite a bit more talkative, wearing enough makeup to paint a house. She's more like me, I guess, in that she's been known to throw punches when she doesn't like what's going on. Vivi, on the other hand, is rail-thin, with dark brown eyes that stand out in her startlingly pale face. She doesn't really talk much, except to answer questions in class: she loves to learn above all else.

That includes learning about how to rip out an opponent's throat, of course.

When we get to the square, filing into the fourteen-year-olds' pen, we don't even get a chance to talk before Mayor Tate begins his annual speech about what an honor this is. I've practically got it memorized by now, so I hold a whispered conversation with my friends instead.

"Magnus is holding a party tonight," hisses Umbra, naming her older brother. "He's invited half the boys in his grade. Are you coming?"

"Well, _duh_," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Provided none of us get reaped," Vivi reminds us.

"Oh, yeah. About that," I begin, suddenly a little embarrassed.

"What?"

"I've been kind of… thinking… about volunteering."

Umbra snorts loudly enough that the escort glares at her. "Really, Desiree? Like you'd stand a chance. We're only fourteen; wait a few years."

"I don't _want_ to wait. Who are you and what have you done with my friend? I thought you'd be arguing with me, saying that _you_ want to volunteer!"

"_I_ just don't want to get myself killed." Umbra's voice is tartly snappish. The mayor finishes the Treaty of Treason and starts in on his personal comments.

"I'm the fastest and the strongest in our age group," I say. "And I've made up my mind."

We all turn to the stage as the escort, a man with purple hair and a face tattooed with stripes named Lenno, moves over to the girls' reaping ball. Reaching in, he pulls out a slip and reads the name. "Ruby Karat."

I bounce on the balls of my feet as Ruby, blonde curls bouncing infuriatingly, takes her own sweet time climbing the stairs. She shakes Lenno's hand.

"Any volunteers?" Lenno asks.

My hand shoots up in the air, but Umbra beats me to it. As we try to stare each other down, Vivi bites her lip uncomfortably. When Umbra starts to go toward the stage, I know I have to speak up.

"_I_ want to be the tribute," I demand loudly. Everyone stares and I feel my face growing warm. "Well, I do," I say.

"What's this?" says Lenno, eyebrows raised. "You're the Gem girl, right? The daughter of the Victors?" I nod. "Well then, by all means, come on up!" I jog forward and take my place, grinning smugly. This is going to be _so much fun_.

* * *

><p><em>District 1 Reapings: Jace Avery<em>

It's nearly eight thirty-five when my alarm clock goes off. It's really a challenge to throw on blue jeans and a white polo before my dad is yelling up the stairs for me to get down there _now!_

I don't even have time for breakfast. Just an apple and a quick glass of water and we're out the door. Reaping day is always a rush; usually our family is much more relaxed.

"It would help, Jace, if you got up earlier," says my mother, when I complain.

"It's not _my_ fault that we're the first District!"

"That's completely beside the point," says my father, checking his watch and pulling me towards the square. "Hurry up."

We take our places. My parents, as Peacekeepers, stand around the outside of the crowds, and I duck under the rope for the fourteen-year-olds just as Mayor Tate finishes his speech. I'm still half-asleep, but I notice an argument going on between two girls who both try to volunteer. It's Desiree Gem, the most annoying girl in our grade—though not bad looking—who eventually stands beside Lenno.

"Arcturus Flan," says our escort, reading off a slip of paper. The kid, a thirteen-year-old with a shock of black hair and green eyes that peer out from behind his round glasses, lopes onto the stage. Desiree eyes him distastefully. "Volunteers?" Lenno asks.

On a whim, for no reason other than that I'm having a _very_ bad, awkward morning, I raise my hand. At Lenno's encouraging nod, I move up, but my foot catches on the last step and I sprawl forward, clumsily catching myself a second before I would have fallen flat on my face. I hear snickers.

"And your name is…?" Lenno asks, seeming a little embarrassed for me.

"Jace Avery," I tell him, blushing, and he claps me on the back.

"Tributes, shake hands."

Desiree's eyes flash and, in a completely different manner than her usual I'm-going-to-kill-you attitude, she shakes my hand with a flirtatious wink. I'm confused. She cocks her head prettily, in a disconcerting way.

"You're so dead," she spits out under her breath, smiling cheerily.

At that moment, I completely agree.


	8. District 2 Reapings

**A/N: Okay, D2 Reapings are here! I hope you like them.**

**PleaseUseAnotherName: about Iris, since she was originally from District 4 on your form, I took some artistic liberties and switched her friends' names from Ariel and Neptune to Arista and Sebastian. They're still water-ish names, though! The Little Mermaid, right? Arista is Ariel's sister. And we all know who Sebastian is.**

**Okay. Here's your chapter!**

* * *

><p><em>District 2 Reapings: Iris Richardson<em>

This is the first time the day of the Reaping makes me sad.

It's not that I'm afraid of being Reaped—I'm sure I could take on any tribute who was stupid enough to go for me. It's just that this is the last year I'll be eligible. I'm eighteen now, nearly an adult, and the yearly celebration of the Games has become part of my life. There's something about the anticipation that I love.

I brush back my golden-brown hair and pull it up into a ponytail. My reflection stares back at me in the mirror: tall, tan, blue-eyed. Since my mother retired from her job as a Peacekeeper eleven years ago and got leave to move here from District 4, I've always looked different from everyone around me.

"Iris, are you about done?" my mother calls through the bathroom door. "You've been in there for nearly half an hour."

"Just a second," I say, smoothing down my turquoise dress, the same color as my eyes.

Exiting the bathroom, I find that a line has developed. My father is also waiting.

"I thought the obsession with makeup stopped when you came of age?" he says jokingly.

"Well, I'm not _quite_ a grown-up yet," I remind him. "Tonight's really when I won't be a kid anymore. After the Reaping, you know?"

"Iwis?" Poseidon says from the kitchen door. "Hewp me tie my shoes?"

"Sure, kiddo," I say, bending down. My brother is only three years old, and I guess my father just didn't want to let go of District 4 when he named him.

"Breakfast is on the table," says my mother as she heads upstairs. "I'll see you in the square." She still likes to meet with the other Peacekeepers at all the public events.

Taking Poseidon's hand, I get him a glass of milk and a muffin. I myself am not hungry so I just wait around until the doorbell rings.

"Iris!" My best friends since second grade, Arista and Sebastian, stand on the doorstep, grinning hugely. "It's almost nine o'clock. Were you planning on missing the Reaping?"

"Of course not," I say. "Come on in!"

Arista and Sebastian have practically lived in my house for years. They both love Poseidon and are very well brought-up, so my parents can't really complain.

Sebastian lolls in an armchair while Arista feeds my brother his muffin. I decide that if none of us is reaped—and it's unlikely that we will be—I will _make sure_ that Sebastian asks Arista out soon. It's obvious that he's in love with her.

"Come on, come on!" cries my mother as she hurries down the stairs, dragging my father along by the wrist. "We'll be late! Oh! Hello, Sebastian, Arista."

"Morning, Mrs. Richardson," they chorus politely. Poseidon giggles.

In the square, we're shuffled into the eighteen-year-olds' pen. Everyone is dressed up and waiting. Right as the clock chimes nine, Mayor Hegert begins the age-old speech of the Treaty of Treason. I wait patiently, but my feet are growing sore. I shouldn't have worn high heels.

Finally, our escort, Messa Tapper, rises and walks to the front of the stage. "Hello, all of you! Good morning," he says, typically formal. "This year is the fifty-first Hunger Games —may the odds be ever in your favor!" Without further ado, he crosses to the glass ball that holds the girls' names and reaches his hand in. His entire arm sinks up to his elbow. I realize that I'm holding my breath, but whether it's in fear or hope, I don't know.

"And the female tribute for District Two is… Iris Richardson!"

I try to exhale but wind up coughing instead. Arista has to whack me on the back for a moment before I can walk up the steps to the stage, a smile plastered across my face. I shake Messa's hand.

Will I come home and shake it again, the second time as a Victor? Or will I be a dead body? What is strange is that I feel numb. I'm not sad anymore, not excited. Just removed from everything. So it's easy to smile and wave at the crowd and pretend that I _love_ what's happening to me.

* * *

><p><em>District 2 Reapings: Brock Davies<em>

"Trent, I will _kill_ you!" I yell, bouncing off the walls as I hurtle down the stairs on the heels of my brother.

"Brock, let's not raise our voices before noon," says my father. He wipes his glasses on the hem of his shirt. "What did he do this time?"

"What do you _think_?" I say, spreading my arms to show how I'm sopping wet. "He poured cold water over my bed." _Just like he did last year on Reaping day,_ I think.

"It's time to get up anyway," my mother says as she enters the room.

"Whatever," I mutter, heading for the linen closet and the towels that are inside it.

When I'm dry, and very much awake, I spend about an hour growing roots in front of the television watching the Reapings in District One. There's a beautiful girl and a really ugly boy, both of whom are younger than I am. I only turn the screen off when Trent throws the remote at my head.

"What was that for?" I ask indignantly.

"No reason," he says brightly.

Now, let me explain. My brother is fifteen, two years younger than I am. And it's thanks to him that we've got this great house in the Victors' Village. He won the Games when he was thirteen years old. This resulted in his enormous ego and my parents' total lenience toward him.

"Just you wait until tonight," I threaten.

"What then?" he asks. "Will you—" he breaks off as my father enters with a piece of toast. "Can I have that?" he asks immediately.

"No. You'll have to make your own." At least he doesn't get _everything_ handed to him on a silver platter. Even if it's only breakfast.

I follow Trent into the kitchen, where he orders me to make his toast. I turn around and head back up the stairs to get ready for the Reaping, leaving him with a bag of bread emptied over his head.

I put on khakis and a navy button down; run a wet comb through my hair. However, when my mother appears, she deems me "unfit to be seen." A blazing red tie is added to the ensemble and I look like a clown. To my eyes, at least. According to her, I'm perfect.

Sometimes I wonder what the fashion was like for her generation. I'm surprised more people haven't gone blind.

On the way to the town square, we pass the Training Plaza, where I've gone every day after school since first grade. This is unusual: most kids don't start training until fourth or fifth grade, sometimes even sixth. But my parents are nothing if not prepared. So now we have a Victor, two very snobbish adults, and me. The extra muscle. The square wheel.

In the square the mayor's speech passes in a blur. I zone out as I have every year. I really don't see the point of just standing here—can't we get to the Reaping bit already?

So of course I'm not expecting it when Messa calls out, "Iris Richardson!"

Okay, no big deal. I know Iris, but not well. All I really know is that she moved here from District Four when I was in first grade. At that time she would have been in second.

But I'm not at all expecting what happens next. Messa travels over to the boys' Reaping ball and pulls out a slip of paper. I'm only half paying attention—what are the odds of my name being called, since my brother's a Victor?—when _my name_ rings out across the square.

"Brock Davies!"

Well.

Um.

I guess there's really only one thing to do now.


	9. District 3 Reapings

**A/N: Ah... sorry... things happened. Things like camp and camping and getting sick. But I had so much fun writing these, so please don't hate me! Review, also, please, even if it's just to yell at me.**

* * *

><p><em>District 3 Reapings: Cieera Klaine<em>

I wake to the sound of squirrels outside my bedroom window, and sit bolt upright. Throwing off the single sheet that is all I use in the summer, I slam the window shut. The noise is gone. Unfortunately, the slam is loud enough to wake up my brother in the next room, and my parents across the hall.

"_Cieera!_" my mother shrieks. "Will you _please_ stop that? It's the third time this week!" It's only Tuesday.

"They're scary, Mom," I call back.

"I know something scarier," Adere says loudly.

His words form a pit in my stomach. Squirrels terrify me, but he's right. I don't even want to think about what's going to happen today. What if—

I pinch myself on the arm, hard. I don't _want_ to think about it, so I _won't_ think about it.

"And that," I tell myself, "is that."

I dress up today. Normally, I don't like wearing even semi-formal clothes, because I feel like I have to be perfect, prim, and proper, and that is _not_ something I like to do.

"Look at you," Adere says when I skip into the kitchen wearing a yellow-and-white striped sundress. "All prettied up for a dance with death!" He gives me a one-armed hug and I have to giggle.

"Not funny, Adere," says my father, but nonetheless he envelops me in his usual warm embrace. My father has always been someone I look up to, simply because he does everything the right way. He seems so sure of himself and so, I don't know, so _justified_.

My mother comes in just as we're sitting down to a breakfast of bread and cheese. Her golden-brown hair is in its usual upsweep, exposing her throat so elegantly that it makes me jealous. My own hair, frizzy blonde, is only chin length; still growing back from the skinhead haircuts they gave our school a few years ago during an outbreak of lice.

"I want you two to be good today," my father says after a few minutes, but I can tell it's directed at Adere rather than me. I don't cause trouble. "Stay quiet and polite. No pranks like last year, either," he adds, though neither of us were part of that. "And…"

My mother reaches over and takes his hand. Adere and I exchange glances.

"And—don't get reaped. Please."

"'Course not, Dad." Adere tries to smile, but it looks more like a grimace. He gets up and puts his empty plate in the sink, then takes mine from under my nose. I let him.

On the way to the square I find my friend, Gylra Marx, wiping away tears. Reaping day is even worse for her family than for the rest of us. Her older sister was reaped four years ago. Her name was Savannah, and she was fourteen. The same age as Adere. And she died.

The atmosphere in the square is tense and anxious. I give Adere and my parents more hugs and then tug Gylra over to the thirteen-year-olds' pen. Leif, a slender girl with blue-black hair and eyes as wide as my own—though brown rather than blue—takes one look at Gylra and smiles sympathetically.

"It's not as though either of you have much to worry about," she offers. "You've never taken out tesserae, have you?"

I shake my head for both of us.

"Lucky," she mumbles, but not cruelly. Leif lives in the poorest part of District Three, right next to the factories that are always belching smoke. She's the best in our class, though, acing every test and quick to figure out mechanical problems. Everyone thinks she'll somehow rise to Mayor.

We all stand stiffly through the Treaty of Treason and the list of Victors. We have ten, but most of them are nearly in the ground by now. Then our escort, Kaffia Patch, advances to the podium. Her spiky magenta hair clashes horribly with her orange suit, but her voice is as dreary and monotone as ever when she says, "Welcome to the fifty-first Hunger Games, and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

She roots around in the girls' reaping ball for a few seconds, apparently enjoying the sensation of having fate literally at her fingertips. Then she triumphantly pulls out a slip of paper. She runs her fingers over it to get rid of the creases and I shut my eyes tight, holding my breath, and I know everyone else is doing the same.

"Cieera Klaine…"

I feel as though I've been suffocated. Too dizzy, the sunlight is too bright, and there's a ringing in my ears that gives me a headache when it's combined with the pounding of my heart. My knees are wobbly as I stumble towards the stage and drag myself up the stairs.

_Don't get reaped. Please._

_Sorry, Dad._

* * *

><p><em>District 3 Reapings: Isaac Seder<em>

"Della, you'd better go. It's dawn."

"Mmmph. 'Kay."

Della Seroski, my girlfriend of seven months, buttons her shirt all the way up and gives me a kiss good-bye. She doesn't leave, though. "Isaac?"

"Yeah?"

"…Be careful today?"

"Love you too."

"I'm serious." By her tone, she is.

I open my eyes. She's sitting on my windowsill with her dark hair billowing gently in the slight morning breeze. "I know," I say, sitting up. "I don't like it either."

"Who are you talking to?" Victoria asks from the hall.

"Nobody," I call back, motioning for Della to get going. She vaults off the window and I can see her sprinting across the lawn and onto the street, heading for home.

"I heard voices."

I open the door. "That's a sign of insanity," I tell her.

Victoria narrows her eyes, looking past me. "What's that?" she asks sharply, nodding at something over my shoulder. With a lurch, I realize that Della left her school blazer on my dresser. "That's a _girl's_ jacket."

"Just, uh—"

"It's 'just' that Seroski girl, right?" Victoria rolls her eyes. "She's been sneaking over for the past two weeks, hasn't she? You guys aren't exactly quiet."

I can feel myself blushing intensely. Why do I have to have this conversation with my sister? And why _today_?

As if she can read my thoughts, she says, "The Reaping's at nine-thirty, so you'd best get dressed."

"And Dad?"

"He's still at work. He was there all night."

Our father is an Inventor, one of the elite few with enough skill to actually be exempt from the Reapings. Of course he's long past Reaping age, and his children still have to take part, but he's too valuable to risk losing. Victoria and I, on the other hand, are only mediocre. My sister's training to be an electric wirer, and I'm an apprentice in the pipeworks. Nothing as celebrated as an Inventor.

A pair of sharply pleated dress pants and a button-down shirt serve as my Reaping outfit. Victoria is twenty this year and doesn't bother to dress up. After a breakfast of honeyed bread, we're out the door.

Victoria gets upset on Reaping day every year, and I can tell she's trying not to cry. Tears make me uncomfortable like nothing else, so I'm guiltily relieved when she joins some of her wiring friends and walks separately.

"How was she?" Henry Lancoi, my best friend since the second grade, asks slyly as he sidles up behind me.

I cuff him over the head, and duck away from his return punch. "Shut it."

"Aha! The lady herself!" Henry spreads his arms dramatically as Della walks over to us. "I hope you—"

"I hope you didn't." She cuts him off smoothly, as she's done every time he starts in on the innuendos.

In the square, Della gives me a peck on the cheek and vanishes into the girls' side of the pens. Henry and I take our places. After a few minutes, Mayor Bauer stands and the microphone crackles with feedback. The younger kids clap their hands over their ears.

"We, the people of Panem, hold these rules…"

The Treaty of Treason is the same every year. Nothing ever changes in District Three, or in the whole country, for that matter. I catch myself nodding off at one point, but manage to jerk myself awake. Finally, Kaffia Patch wanders up to the front of the stage.

"Welcome to the fifty-first Hunger Games," she drones, and then adds as though she's under duress, "and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor."

With agonizingly slow movements, she fumbles around in the girls' Reaping ball. I hope with all my heart that it's not Della, because it can't be her, because if she's picked then I don't know what I'll—

"Cieera Klaine."

First I feel the relief, and then a sickening horror. The girl is only thirteen, with the unusual blonde-hair-and-blue-eyes combination that springs up in the gene pool every now and then, and she's plainly terrified. She's not weak, at least not from what I can see, but no one would ever call her muscular. She gazes out at the crowd and sways a little from the fear.

As I watch this girl, whom I've never seen before in my life, I don't have a chance to think about myself before Kaffia says expressionlessly, "Isaac Seder."

Beside me, Henry stiffens in shock. Out of the corner of my eye I see him slowly turn his head and stare at me. But I can't muster anything but a faint surprise as I walk woodenly onto the stage. I feel naked with everyone watching me so intently.

The girl, Cieera, looks up at me with huge blue eyes. For some reason, I wink at her. A high-pitched, hysterical giggle escapes her lips, and suddenly I want to laugh. But I don't, because I still feel disconnected from everything.

"Congratulations," Kaffia says, but clearly she doesn't care. To the cameras, she drones, "The tributes for District Three: Cieera Klaine and Isaac Seeder."

I shake Cieera's hand and there's a fragile strength in her grip.

How in the world can I kill her?


	10. District 4 Reapings

**A/N: First chapter that I've updated during high school! My feet hurt... a _lot_. And so does my back, from the books I had in my bag _all day_.**

**On the upside, I'm taking German, which promises to be great :)**

**Enough about me, though. Go ahead and read about the TRIBUTES OF DISTRICT FOUR!**

* * *

><p><strong>District Four Reapings: Charlotte Dove<strong>

"It was just a dream, Kenton," I repeat, exasperated. "You're alive. I'm alive. Vi's alive, and look—Mom and Dad are alive, too."

Kenton looks up at me, his pudgy nine-year-old face glistening with tears in the light from the streetlamps outside. "What about Lyre?"

I sigh. "Lyre is married now, remember? Nothing's going to hurt him."

"But—"

"What're you doing?" Vi steps out of her room, taking in the scene: me, exhausted in my tank top and pajama pants, and Kenton, clinging to my hand for dear life. I can't feel my fingers anymore. "Oh. Did you have a nightmare, Kenton?"

He nods and runs into her open arms. "It was scary. A Capitol man came and took you all away, and I was alone, and I didn't know where you were!"

"Sh-h-h-h," she murmurs.

I can already tell she'll have him calmed down within fifteen minutes, so I lie in bed and try to fall back to sleep. No luck. Kenton's fears are false, but I can't deny that they're rational. Today's reaping day. If I'm honest with myself, I feel similar.

_But he's _nine_,_ I remind myself. Nine is much too old to be _open_ about these things. Next year he'll begin training. How will he do that if he cringes at the mildest insult?

"He's asleep," Vi announces quietly, appearing in my doorway. I sit up and brush my light brown hair out of my face. Vi, my identical twin, has no such problem—she's kept her hair at earlobe length for the past four years.

It's our only real difference in appearance, but we're opposites in temperament. I never have a problem with doing what needs to be done. Vi doesn't, either, but she takes others' feelings into consideration. That's it: she's considerate, and considerably more so than I am. It's evident in everything we do. I do nights at the training station learning how to gut an enemy; she learns how to gut a fish. If she's even _at_ the training station—more often than not, she's helping out with the younger kids after school.

Sometimes I hate her for that.

Then I hate myself for hating her, and I hate everything for creating the situation, even when I know that's beside the point.

But we have our good times, too. Most of those occur when we're on our family boat. Today, though, all the boats are under the careful surveillance of our Peacekeepers.

"Thanks," I say. "You're so good with kids."

"So are you," she says generously, and smiles a little. We both know that's not true. After a few seconds' pause, the smile vanishes and she asks, "Char?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you…" She takes a deep breath. "Do you think either of us will be Reaped?"

"The odds are against it," I say automatically, inwardly bemoaning this weakness that she's showing. "I mean, the only family higher up than us is Mayor Sol's."

"Right," she says, "but _just say_ the name is drawn and it's—"

"Stop it," I moan, throwing a pillow at her. "You're making me nervous." I laugh, but it's barely believable.

Vi leaves. By now, the sun is up and I can hear our parents moving around in the bedroom they share.

I move to my wardrobe. I've had a dress ready for this day for _months_—a pretty purple one that brushes the tops of my feet. It hugs my form nicely. Years of exercise from running and swimming have kept me fit and slender.

"Hey, Mom?" I call up the stairs, draping the dress over my arm. "I'm going over to Vala's, okay? She said she'd do my hair."

"All right," she acquiesces. "Violet will get you at nine forty-five." I roll my eyes. Though I'm grateful my mother doesn't keep me as close as other families, she's still too protective for my taste. But I don't spend time thinking about controlling parental units, and I step onto the street with a banana for the walk.

District Four is, in my opinion, the best place in the world to live. Of course, it's the only place I've _ever_ lived, so maybe I'm a tad biased and inexperienced. But who wouldn't love the salty smell, the ocean breeze, and the sound of waves that's always present? I can't imagine being anywhere else.

When I get to Vala's house, she drags me to her room. Since the third grade, we've been drifting apart, but every year on reaping day, she faithfully does my hair. It's our chance to talk without the pressure of fitting in—which is easier for me than for her.

Vala is my age, fifteen, with curly brown hair and the grey eyes that so many people seem to possess. While she tans a bit in the summer, she still remains fairly pale. Nothing like me or Vi, with our liberal sprinklings of freckles.

This year, Vala twists my hair into a fancy knot on the top of my head as she chats about her boyfriend, Wesley Adkins. He's a year older than we are, but all three of us were friends for a few years. Vi, too, of course, but she tends to hang out with the more artsy types.

Within seconds of Vala's finishing touches of hairspray, the doorbell rings. Vi's here, which must mean that it's nearly ten o'clock. Wow.

The square is filled with people as dressed up as I am. Vi wears a deep blue number with a shimmery green sash. It brings out her eyes, which, like mine, are a vivid sort of lime color.

After the Treaty of Treason—which _nobody_ bothers to listen to—our escort, Arvin, pops up from his chair and grins scarily out at the crowd. His jet-black hair has a dyed streak of white in it, and his pale makeup combined with the dark eyeliner makes him seem like something out of a horror story. No wonder Kenton had nightmares.

"Welcome to the fifty-first Hunger Games," he says in his ridiculous Capitol accent, "and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" He slithers—it's really the only word for it—over to the girls' Reaping ball, where he roots around in it for a few moments before whipping out his hand and zipping back to the podium. Arvin clears his throat, and Vi squeezes my hand so hard that I feel my bones grinding together.

"Charlotte Dove!"

Oh, no.

"Charlotte Dove?"

Arvin sounds uncertain now, and it occurs to me that I _should_ move, but I can't, because Vi is clinging to me like Kenton did to her this morning. I have to pry her hands away, and I nearly start crying, but I don't. I can't. I mustn't. To cry would be weak, and to be weak would be to fail.

I will not fail.

* * *

><p><strong>District Four Reapings: Pike Mathewes<strong>

It is seven o'clock, and Abigailia and her friends are _still_ giggling, _still_ squealing, and _still_ awake.

Unfortunately, so am I. And I mean the awake part, not the giggling and squealing part.

Obviously.

I sigh and turn on the light. I don't have to get up to do it, because now that we live in the slums of District Four, my room isn't even as long as I am tall.

"Oh my_ GOSH_, Abby, _really_?" Abbey, like everyone else who's too immature to face up to real life, has opted to invite her friends—_all_ of her friends—to sleep over on the night of the Reaping. Except it's not as much of a sleepover as a keep-Pike-awake-over. "I can't _believe_—"

"Enough!" I growl loudly, and punch the thin wall. Hard. A blissful silence ensues. But now I'm too wound-up, and I'll _just have to accept_ that today will be spent exhausted.

"Pike, let your sister and her friends talk!" my mother calls from the hall. "When you were thirteen, you would have done the same thing."

"Actually, dear," I hear my dad inform her, "we _men_ do not have slumber parties."

I grin. And then I swear as I sit up and bang my head on the low ceiling. A bout of muffled whispering erupts from the next room.

Grumbling under my breath, I throw on a white polo shirt and black pants, and add a blue tie for good measure. This is the only formal outfit that I own, thanks to my grandfather's death.

Even thinking of him makes me upset enough that I have to take a moment to compose myself. Since I was two years old, I've been closer to him than anyone else. He was at least ninety, which is, of course, _ancient_. So I shouldn't have been surprised when he died five months ago, but—well, what I _should_ have felt wasn't what I _did_ feel. What I still feel.

And now that he's gone, all his wealth is in the Capitol, and our family has gone from the apex of society to the very bottom. We still eat three meals a day, but it's mostly dry bread and watery soup. If we want fruit, we save weeks of pay for it. Needless to say, our table remains mainly bare.

I take my time over the meager breakfast. The bread sticks in my throat.

Reaping day. The one day of the year that the training station is closed, and the one day when I most want to go there. To me, nothing is more comfortable than the feel of a trident's hilt in my hand.

When it's nearly ten o'clock and I can think of nothing else to do to delay leaving the house, I drag myself through the streets and into the square. It's difficult to be here, among my classmates—juniors, all of us, with only one year of Reaping after this—where I was once surrounded by friends, and am now avoided like I carry some contagious disease.

The Treaty of Treason buzzes in my ears like an annoying fly. I want to run away from those glass balls, from that revolting Arvin with his creepy makeup. But in the back of my mind is the threat of the two tesserae rations I've taken since we moved down the social ladder. Two more times my name has been entered—which makes that eighteen times. More than most of the people in this District.

"Charlotte Dove," chirps Arvin, and I'm jolted out of my reverie. He repeats the name, and a gorgeous girl who looks maybe one or two years younger than me takes her place on the stage. A wail rises up from the pen she's just left.

Arvin strides over to the boys' Reaping ball and takes the first slip he finds. I hope _so_ desperately that it's _not me, not me, not me_—

"Pike Mathewes!"

Wow. Just my luck.

I shake hands with the girl, Charlotte, but I can't feel her hand in mine. All I can think of is how I shouted at Abigailia this morning. Do I still have time to say I'm sorry?

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Please, please, _please_ review!**


	11. District 5 Reapings

**District 5 Reapings: Eia Days**

* * *

><p>My bedroom floor is <em>freezing<em>. I hop around on my tiptoes for a few seconds before I gather enough sense to put on a pair of socks. Like almost everything I own, the fabric is rough and scratchy, but thick. The only clothes that fit properly and look nice at the same time are, unfortunately, things I get to wear just one day a year.

Reaping clothes. Ugh.

I pull on the dreaded green skirt and white blouse, shivering. Even though it's July, mornings in District Five are chilly all year long. My arms prickle with gooseflesh and I hurry out into the hallway. My sister Aqua is sitting outside her door, her knees pulled up to her chest. She hugs herself.

"Heat rises," I tell her. "If you're cold, you'd be better off standing up." But I know it's not the cold she's trying to evade.

Aqua looks up at me with her wide blue eyes, so unlike mine. "Scared," she says, probably the only word she'll utter all day. She's plenty smart, I _know_ she is, but because she hardly ever talks, people think she's stupid. Clearly, they've never seen her do a math problem. She's probably smarter than I am. There's just something different inside her head.

"Yeah," I agree, and then more quietly, I say, "me too." Because I'm worried that I'll be reaped.

There, I said it. No point in pretending otherwise. I reach down and grab Aqua's hand. She latches on, and together we walk into the main room. In the light, I see she's wearing her reaping outfit, too. A light brown jumper that, when matched with her bright red hair, reminds me of autumn.

Aqua heads into the kitchen, with me trailing close behind. "Would you like some honey on bread tonight, for dinner?" I ask, hoping it will happen, and that I'll still be around for dinner. She nods emphatically, and we both smile. Hers is shaky, and as I slice the bread for breakfast, I notice her eyes glimmering wetly. I lay down the knife and open my arms. She steps into them and squeezes.

"It'll be okay," I promise, even though I have no right to say such things. "I'll be fine, you'll see." In my head, I know that I might be dead in two weeks. But in my heart, I have to tell myself what I need to hear. If I let myself think too long about what _might happen_, then—well, then everything will collapse.

See, it's not as if Aqua has anywhere else to go. With our mother permanently crippled by a chronic disease that runs in the family, and our father wasted on illegal alcohol, I'm the only one who's functioning normally. This family has bad luck. I don't know how I escaped it.

"You're getting my shirt wet," I tell her now. She immediately steps back, and I ruffle her hair. As much as I resent our parents' motives and lifestyles, Aqua is good. She's innocent. She's young and smart and too sweet to have been wasted here. It's the least I can do to look out for her.

We eat the bread in silence, which is perfectly normal. Nobody talks much around here. After our meal, eaten on napkins because neither of us feel much like washing dishes—and who knows if I'll be around later to wash them, anyways?—we check our parents' room.

"Baby? That you?" My mother's hoarse voice comes out of the darkness. And, as always, she's talking to me and completely ignoring Aqua. I am the precious child, with my light hair, freckles, and dark eyes. I am the good one, and my sister, with her fiery hair and sky-blue eyes, is a bad egg. At least, that's how our parents see it.

"Both of us," I say, sarcasm dripping from my words. "It's ten-fifteen. The Reaping's in a quarter hour."

"You ought to wake me earlier," she says, as if it's my fault she keeps her curtains closed so it's pitch black in the middle of the day. As if it's my fault she doesn't even _try_ to help with anything.

Aqua tugs on my sleeve, and when I look down, she beckons me to come with her. She leads me to the bathroom, where I stifle a groan. Our father is passed out on the cheap linoleum. Out cold. Lazarus, the District idiot. And tavern drunk.

"I can't deal with this today," I say decisively, and start for the door. "We'll leave him here today."

Outside, it's finally warm. We're the only people in sight. This part of District Five is so far from the square that everyone leaves at ten. Well, everyone except us.

It takes twenty minutes to get there. Aqua has to jog a little to keep up with me, because I know that if we're very late, the Peacekeepers will want to know why. They'll pronounce both our parents unsuitable guardians—as if _they_ know what makes a suitable guardian—and send us to the orphanage.

After we sign our names and Aqua takes her place on the sidelines, I slip into the fifteen-year-olds' pen. My best friends, Matilda Rowe and Magnolia Cress, are waiting anxiously, paying no attention to the Treaty of Treason that Mayor Gaffer is reading.

"What kept you?" Matilda asks, taking my hand. Magnolia gives me a one-armed hug.

"The usual," I say. "You know, pixies and fairies and gnomes giving me trouble. I think a leprechaun joined in, too."

Magnolia giggles, even though it's not that funny. We're all wound up today. "I'm glad you made it," she tells me.

Mayor Gaffer finishes his speech. Baca, our escort, a man with long green hair and skin darker than any I've ever seen, slinks up to the podium.

"Happy Hunger Games," he says, blowing a disgusting kiss to the audience. "May the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" He winks. Ugh, he's too flirty. Does he think anyone actually _likes_ him for it?

Preoccupied by thoughts of women who might be gross enough to fall in love with Baca, it takes me completely by surprise when he calls out _my_ name.

"Eia Days!"

My mouth opens in shock, but nothing comes out. A reedy wail from behind me. Aqua. But instead of comforting her, which I can't do because I can't feel my hands or feet, I am walking towards the reaping stage.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die. Somebody is going to kill me, and then I will die, and—

And I _can't_ die. I can't leave Aqua on her own. If I die, we will both be dead.

I must win. I'll win.

I'm going to come home, alive, and no one will stop me.

* * *

><p><strong>District 5 Reapings: Henry Loom<strong>

* * *

><p>"Don't <em>touch<em> me," I snap, and the sound of my bedroom door shutting quietly is music to my ears. I lie in bed for a few minutes more, savoring the warmth, before accepting that the consequences will be worse if I'm late for the Reaping.

I may not be stupid enough to stay in bed today of all days, but just because I'll bow to authority doesn't mean they've got me wrapped around their collective sadistic fingers. Lots of people dress up for the ceremony, but I _will not_. I pull on a pair of work pants and a nondescript black shirt, the same as I wear every day.

The fabric is as scratchy as ever. In District Five, the hellhole I call home, functionality is more important than appearance or comfort. In fact, comfort generally places last on that list. Take my family, for example. My parents, Suzanne Forth and Henry Loom, Senior, and my sister, Bellatrix, work together like a well-oiled machine. But what can you expect from people with brains the size of your average dust mite?

And, sure, they _look_ like the perfect family. We all do. Two kids and two parents, neither of whom are alcoholic or abusive. We look great and have wonderful coordination, but it's dull. Dull and dreary, and I hate it.

I _loathe_ these people, and I can't get rid of them.

One of them, Bellatrix, by her voice, knocks on my door. "Mom says you've got thirty seconds until she'll knock down your door with a battering ram."

"We don't _have_ a battering ram," I inform her.

"You know what I mean," she says, maddeningly patient. I savor the look of surprise as I throw the door open and she jumps back. "Hi, there."

I ignore her, stomping down the hall to the kitchen, where my parents are washing dishes in the sink. My mother scrubs and my father rinses and dries.

"We left you some bran, Junior," my father says, nodding at the bowl of congealed mush on the table.

I grind my teeth at the pet name. Yes, I have the same name as my father, but I'd rather he called me Hen than Junior. It's so _childish_. I scoop up the bowl and slam it down on the counter. "I don't want it."

"You sure?" My mother places her palm on my forehead, and I shove it away. "Maybe you're sick."

I shake my head vehemently. "I'm going to the square," I announce, and stalk out the door.

The street is warmer than the house, and by the time I get to the square, the sun has drawn other people outside. We all move in the same direction, but nobody else looks as angry as I am. Of course not. Stupid pigs.

In the square, I stand silently as the pens fill in around me. The fifteen-year-olds' pen is nearly bursting, so it's likely one of us will be Reaped. Will it be me? For a second, I'm lost in a daydream about being Reaped. About escaping this place and _winning the Games_, and coming home to my own house, where I can be _alone_.

I'd like that.

I fume some more during the Treaty of Treason, and resurface as the idiot escort, Baca, walks jauntily up to the podium and calls out his customary greeting.

The girl tribute, someone named Eia Days—what kind of name is _that_?—looks unsteady enough to topple over on her way up to the stage. She fiddles with her blonde hair and bites her lip, clearly not smart enough to pay attention. Her eyes have a vacant look.

Then Baca plunges a hand into the boys' lottery ball and withdraws his fist, a paper slip clutched inside it. Moving back to the podium, he reads out, "Henry Loom, Jr."

I can't believe it. This is what I've wanted, what I've dreamed of. I am just _tickled_. As I hurry up towards the stage, I have to fight to keep my face expressionless instead of grinning from ear to ear.

I'm outta here.

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><p><strong>AN: Who else wants to stick Junior full of little pins?**

**Sorry, that was a little harsh. But you know what I mean :)**

**Already working on D6 Reapings! To anybody who's a Making it Count fan, the update _is_ almost done!**


	12. District 6 Reapings

**A/N: I know, I know... you guys want to kill me. Well, I was doing NaNoWriMo, so... I'm sorry that I wasn't updating, but I'm not sorry that I did it. Anyways, here's the chapter. Next update should be no later than December 18th.**

**And I really am sorry about the wait.**

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><p><strong>District 6 Reapings: Sylvia Frost<strong>

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><p>It's too early to be up.<p>

The mattress squeals as I roll over, trying to figure out what woke me. A loud noise behind me makes me sit up sharply. I'm glad it's summer; my arms are bare but the temperature in my room is quite warm.

The noise came from my window, and now something hits it—a handful of pebbles that clatter irritatingly over the glass.

I sigh, throwing the blanket off of my legs and stumbling sleepily over to the window. I open it and a cool breeze rushes in, along with a barrage of tiny rocks.

"Aah! Brink, stop it!" I spit a pebble out of my mouth and glare down at my best friend.

"Oh my gosh, Sylvia, I'm so sorry!" Quicker than most would believe possible, she scales the wall of our house. "Can I come in?"

"Well, sure, why not?" I ask. "After all, you've already woken me up and thrown rocks at my face. How could I possibly refuse?" Even as I speak, I move aside and Brink climbs over the sill.

"I am sorry about that," she tells me. "But it's not early! It's almost nine o'clock, you know!"

"Probably scratched the window, too," I mutter. "The Reaping's at _eleven_," I say more audibly. "I like my sleep. You'd better have a really good reason for this."

"Weeeeelll…" Brink draws the word out, shifting her eyes away. "Actually, I don't. I was bored."

"You're always bored."

"I'd argue," she says, "but I'd be lying."

I sigh. "There's no point in me going back to sleep now, is there?"

Brink shakes her head. "Nope. None at all." She focuses on my closet. "What are you wearing today?"

It's as though she's thrown more pebbles at me—only they're heavy boulders this time, dropping on my chest with all the force of a Capitol train. What am I wearing today? Why does it matter? Everyone knows the answer: it's the Reaping…

I shake my head to clear it. This won't help. "You want to see it?" Brink nods, so I slide out of bed and open the closet. As usual, I'm a little embarrassed at the mess and clutter inside, but for once, nothing tumbles out onto the floor. I pull a light green dress out of the jumble. "What do you think?" I ask, holding it to my body.

Brink cocks her head to one side, considering me. "I think," she says finally, "that if today were a normal day, every guy at school would be crazy for you."

I let the dress hang by my side and give her the Look. "Why are you so fixated on boys?" I ask, grabbing my hairbrush off the dresser and yanking it through my impossibly curly hair.

"Why don't you care?" Brink shoots back. This is an argument we've had many times before. We met in the first grade, eleven years ago, and we've almost always been polar opposites on this subject. "I mean, you've got your pick, but you don't spare them a glance."

I shut myself in my closet and, in the limited space, begin to change into my dress. "You could take advantage of my indifference," I point out.

Brink changes the subject. "What time is it?"

"I'm the one in a closet," I remind her.

"Right." There's a pause as she checks the clock on my dresser. "Hey, it's already ten thirty."

"_What_?" I poke my head out. It's later than I thought. I quickly finish dressing and exit the closet, untangling myself from the sleeves of my threadbare coat. Hurrying over to the dresser, I check my reflection before rushing out of the room.

"Just leave me hanging, why don't you?" Brink calls after, not shouting, but still too loud, since my family doesn't know she's here.

I backtrack and stand in the doorway. "I didn't ask you to come," I say pointedly. "Shouldn't you be at home, anyways?"

Brink shrugs. "Nobody cares at my place. But I'll meet you in the square?" She's already at the window.

"Of course." I don't wait, but rush down the hall towards my parents' room. "Dad, get up!" I know for a fact that my mother's still at the hospital, since she worked the night shift. "Come on!"

My sister, Nina, pokes her head out of her room. "Why are you yelling?" she asks. I see that she's already dressed.

"Because it's already ten thirty," I say indignantly. "We have to _go_. And—what are you doing?"

"Studying," Nina says, a little embarrassed, even though it's nothing new. She's the most book-crazy person I've ever met, at least about med school. "We have exams next week."

I shake my head and continue down the hall. "I feel lucky." I'm one of the lucky few whose talents are far enough outside the field of medicine that I can do other things. In my case, I specialize in art.

"You should," she says, withdrawing.

"Dad! Up," I call through the door. I hear his mumble of assent from the other side. "Please, _please_ hurry."

"Just go eat," yells Nina from her bedroom. She's probably right.

I fix myself a bowl of yogurt, almost gone bad, but I'm too nervous to take more than a few bites. I shove it toward my father as he stumbles in. His eyes are clouded and his hair, graying at the temples, is a complete mess, but at least he's dressed properly. "Here. I don't want it."

"You sure, Sylv?" He peers at me with sleep still written all over his face. "You should probably get something in you…"

I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm not hungry." Not the truth, exactly, but I might throw up if I try to eat.

My father sighs and sticks a spoon in the yogurt. Nina walks in, brushing her dark hair behind her ear. She's twirling a pencil between her fingers. "Why are you just standing here?" she asks. "The way you were shouting, anyone would think there was a death penalty for being late."

I stare at her. How can she say that? But she doesn't give any sign of remorse, so I look at the clock again. Ten forty-five. Oh, we need to _go_…

"Go on," my father says, finishing the yogurt and putting the bowl in the sink. "You're clearly about to explode. Nina, you hungry?"

"Hmm?" She looks up from examining the pencil. "Oh. No, not really."

I don't stick around, but dash out the door. I'm being totally irrational, I know, but I can't help it. The Reaping is pretty much the only day of the year when I get this agitated. My rushing is not made more understandable by the fact that we only live a few houses from the square.

When I get to the huge, crowded area, it must be about ten forty, though there's no clock I can see. I sign my name and crane my head to find Brink. Ah—there she is. Waving at me.

"Len Vickson is watching you," she says when I draw near, naming one of the boys in our class.

I look at Brink, who's grinning evilly. "You will never make me care," I sniff. "He can watch me all he likes. It won't do any good."

"Aw, you're so… so _untouchable_," Brink tells me, punching me lightly on the shoulder. "Oh, we'd better listen up." She pretends to listen raptly to Mayor Kratz's speech while giggling quietly.

I think about that. Untouchable, me? I don't believe that. Brink must not remember the cockroach incident, or she wouldn't say things like this about me.

When the speech is finally over, District 6's escort, Fabio Bruschetta, walks up to the podium. Even though it pains me to admit it, I really don't mind him. He has a nice-looking face and somehow reminds me of my father. "Welcome," he says. "Now is the time to select one young man and woman to represent District Six in the fifty-first Hunger Games." He names our five victors, none of whom really mean anything to me. They don't look happy. Then a pit forms in my stomach as he goes to the girls' glass ball, where I know that seven copies of my name lie. Seven because, two years ago, the shortage of food meant that tesserae was my only option.

Fabio roots around in the bowl for a few moments and theatrically picks a slip. He makes it smooth as he goes back to the microphone.

Brink grabs my hand, suddenly, and squeezes. The crowd is absolutely silent as Fabio takes a breath. I chant over and over in my head, _no one I know, no one I know, no one I know, no one I—_

"Sylvia Frost!"

_—know_.

Brink swears next to me. I squeeze her hand, too late, and remember what she just told me. I'm untouchable. I'm untouchable. I _am_. I have to be. With this determination, I begin the death march toward the stage.

I can't afford to be touched.

* * *

><p><strong>District 6 Reapings: Jayden Brown<strong>

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><p><em>Today is a big day for you, Jayden.<em>

"Really?" I know it's the day of the Reaping, but that doesn't have any connection to me, personally. "How?"

_Your entire life is going to change. Things will never be the same again._

My eyes widen. I like to think that I look crazier this way, with my hair as wild as normal and my skin its usual deathly pale, but now my eyes, a boring brown, match the rest of me. "What do you mean?"

_You'll find out soon enough._

I shrug and hunt for my shoes. There are two knocks on my door. The first is loud, normal. The second is much quieter, as if in apology for the first.

"Jayden? Are you awake?"

I open the door to see my mother. "Yeah, why?"

"It's almost eleven o'clock," she says.

_Almost time for your life to change. Make sure you're ready._

"Don't worry, I will be."

My mother opens her mouth, closes it, and then opens it again. "Well, don't take too long," she says finally, and walks away down the hall.

I turn and survey my room. Where on earth are my shoes? I get down on my hands and knees, peering beneath the bed. Nope, not there. They're not in the closet, either. I am just about to give up when I remember the pile of dirty clothes in the corner. Maybe…

Sure enough, when I've moved half of the mess, I see the white of the laces peeking through. They feel comfortable when I put them on.

_Don't forget a jacket._

"Right," I mutter, and pull on the black blazer. I almost never use it, but since it's secondhand—as is everything I own—it's threadbare anyways.

In the kitchen, my mother hands me a slice of bread with dairy spread. Not butter, we're not rich enough for that, but it's better than nothing. I eat it quickly and end up wondering when we can leave.

_Don't wait. Just go._

I walk out the door, hearing no complaint from my parents. They don't try to stop me anymore. The streets are reasonably crowded, but I have a bubble of space around my body that nobody invades. It's kind of funny, actually. There's no reason for them to stay away. Not that I mind.

_They respect you._

"I know." I've heard that many times before, but now I want to know, "Why?"

_You deserve the treatment. It means you are superior, you know._

I nod.

The square is very, very packed when I get there. The masses press in, but still, nobody touches me at all. I sign my name, _Jayden Brown_ in the spidery handwriting that's my own.

_Make sure you're ready. Don't lose control._

"Of what?" I ask, but there's no answer. Shrugging, I head over to the pen full of male sixteen-year-olds, where I belong.

Right as the clock strikes eleven o'clock, Mayor Kratz begins the Treaty of Treason and the rest of the stuff that goes along with the Reaping. I don't think I've ever managed to listen to the whole thing, but this year I make myself comprehend the words. It turns out to be just as boring as it always is.

Fabio Bruschetta announces the Victors and sinks his hand into the girls' ball. I don't even _care_ about any girls of reaping age, to be honest, or any girls in particular. But the girl whose name is called, Sylvia Somebody, has a resolute, blank expression that I almost envy.

_She is nothing._

Right. I know that.

Then Fabio picks a boy's name.

"Jayden Brown!"

Oh. That's me. Fabio Bruschetta just called my name. In the Reaping. Well, I know what that means. I walk toward the stage, curiously calm. I'm not scared.

_Of course you're not, Jayden. Your entire life has just changed._

_ This is your destiny._

I understand now. Except for one thing—is it my destiny to come home, or to die?

Do I even care?

_It doesn't matter. You are better than them all._

* * *

><p><strong>AN: By the way, Jayden's little conversations are due to the fact that the submitter said he was schizophrenic. I hope I'm not offending anybody here, I'm just going off what I know from movies and other weird things.**


	13. District 7 Reapings

**A/N: Next update should be between December 30th and January 5th, because I probably won't update over the New Year's weekend. Happy Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/whatever you do or don't celebrate, and happy new year's! Love you guys!**

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><p><strong>District Seven Reapings: Rose Ivory<strong>

* * *

><p>In my dream, I am hiding. Everything is silent, and although I don't know what I'm trying to escape, I know that making noise means death. There's nothing but the sound of my heartbeat in the darkness.<p>

A spark of light appears in front of me, on the ground. , like a candle in the dark. It grows and seems to ripple, spreading outwards. It is almost touching my bare toes. When I don't move, the light laps against my flesh, and I realize that it's not light at all—it's water.

I wake up in a cold sweat, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. I have that dream often, and I never wise up and run away from the light. It scares me out of my skin every time.

One good thing, though, is that maybe I can get back to sleep, since I never dream twice in one night—or morning. Faint light is shining through the crack between the curtains. Those are a luxury. Our family is one of the few in District 7 that has money to spare. In fact, excepting the Mayor's, we're probably the _only_ one.

The thought of the mayor and authority in general is like one of my father's carving knives straight to my heart. Today is Reaping day. The fourth since Ash died. The fourth since the Capitol snatched my brother away from me.

Well, there's no chance of getting back to sleep now. Besides, according to the clock on the stand next to my bed, it's already ten o'clock. Time to get moving. Even though the district relies on our family, I wouldn't put it past the Peacekeepers to punish us severely—meaning the gallows—for being late.

The blouse and skirt I've selected lie carefully folded at the foot of my bed, courtesy of my mother. I feel a little warmth enter my body at the sight, cold with fear, dread, and grief as I am. For a while, I've wondered if she remembers that this is my first reaping. She's been so withdrawn during the past months, although if I'm honest with myself, I know it began four years ago. The folded clothes make me hope that maybe she's starting to recover. My father might actually smile if she comes back to him.

I'm glad the Reaping is in the summer, if we must have a Reaping at all. For one, I get to wear my best clothes this way rather than covering them with a coat. For another, I don't fancy standing around in the freezing winter weather.

The blouse I have chosen is yellow like daffodils. Ash used to say that the color brought out the gold tones in my skin and hair, both of which are more tan than anything else. The skirt is a very light pink. It reminds me of the petals of wildflowers that line the fence that encircles the district. On the other hand, it reminds me of the color of the water after my father washes his hands from skinning whatever the workers bring in from the woods. Technically, nobody's supposed to hunt, but if the loggers disturb any animals, the Peacekeepers don't stop them from bringing the carcasses here.

I slip my feet into my well-worn shoes, which are too small. Shoes, however, cost more than almost anything else, so new pairs happen only about once every two and a half years.

To my surprise, my mother is already in the kitchen when I enter. She turns to face me, and her eyes are red-rimmed. This is not a surprise.

"Good morning," I say anyways.

In a cupboard are the eggs Sasha gave me yesterday. He does this every Reaping day, although we don't need it. He says he steals them from the nests in the woods where he works.

My father comes in just as the eggs finish cooking. I know that he is very aware of what day this is, because he moves gingerly, as if he will fall apart if he touches anything too hard. He looks at me and tries a smile. It ends up a grimace.

We all eat in silence. Well, I eat, and my mother picks at her food. My father lets his egg go cold on his plate, the yolk congealing until it looks utterly unappetizing. I'm not particularly hungry either, but I have a history of fainting when I am hungry. I will not faint today.

The square is literally right outside of our door. This means that we don't need to leave until exactly eleven twenty-five. I head over to the table with the rosters and sign my name, _Rose Ivory,_ in the first empty slot. I notice the name above mine, _Sasha Ward._ Right on cue, someone taps me on the back.

I turn around and there he is. His long brown bangs hang in his face as he smiles down at me with his blue eyes crinkled with sympathy. He knows what day it is, too, and he knows what it means to _me._

"Thank you for the eggs. Again," I add. I don't try to convince him that there's no need, that he can and should keep them for his own family of eight.

"No problem." He goes into the pen for the male twelve-year-olds and I to the females, where we stand with only a small bit of rope between us as Mayor Fir begins to speak. "How are your parents?" he whispers.

I shake my head. It's all that's needed. "How many times is your name in there?" I ask just as quietly. I have to know, even if it is not a fun subject to discuss.

"Five times," he tells me. "Once each for Kallia, Travis, and Birch. Then one for my mother. And my own, very special, _first_ slip." His tone morphs to sarcastic towards the end, but then it's normal again, as he asks, "I assume you only have one?"

"Yes." I'm still thinking about his five slips. I know it is nothing next to the hundreds, maybe even thousands of slips in those big glass balls, but I can't help worrying. What if—? All I know is that I can't stand to lose someone else when my parents are already lost to me in so many ways.

"You've got practically no chance," Sasha tells me. "The odds are definitely in your favor."

At this exact moment, the insanely excited escort, Rhana Klar, approaches the podium. "Happy Hunger Games, everybody!" she squeals. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" She actually claps her hands in some enthusiastic spasm.

I feel my teeth biting into my lip as Rhana goes to the girls' ball and shoves her hand in. Wishes flood my head and then—

"Rose Ivory!"

I can very clearly hear Sasha's gasp from beside me. He says my name quietly, but it's sort of a groan. A girl behind me, Cherry, prods me in the back. I take a step toward the gap in the rope that serves as the exit. Is this what Ash felt like? Did his breath come quickly like mine? Was his body numb and tingling at the same time? Was he terrified?

"Congratulations, you lucky girl!" Rhana is grinning impossibly wide in front of me.

All I can think of is Ash. I thought I was safe. So did he. But look what's happened to us—look where he is, look where I'm going to be soon.

That's right. Dead.

* * *

><p><strong>District Seven Reapings: Jay Rhine<strong>

* * *

><p>"Up! Up, you ungrateful louts!"<p>

I'm on my feet before I have time to think. Fourteen years of life in the orphanage have taught me that it's best to obey orders, at least harmless ones like this, before somebody gets hurt.

Beza bellows down the row of beds, her face its usual apoplectic color. "Anyone still horizontal in fifteen seconds will pay for it! You know what day it is today? Do you?" She points at Auxley, one of the younger kids, and he mumbles his answer.

"Reaping day, ma'am."

"That's _right_. Now get your clothes on! Five minutes!" She slams the door behind her. I swear it shakes on its hinges.

I turn back to my bed and fold the sheets flat. I know if I don't I will have more scars added to the collection on my back. When I'm done with that, I reach underneath the bed for the threadbare pants and shirt that I wear every day. Everyone here has more or less the same outfit, so there's no point in trying to find something different.

Beza is back in two minutes. I don't know how she opens the door without touching the handle—maybe she kicks it? In any case, she immediately targets Dale. He's two beds down from me, and still pulling his shirt on.

"No lazing today, boy! You'll be sorry!" She gives him a sharp whack on the head as he emerges from his shirt. "Everybody form a line!" she yells.

There's a lot of shuffling as we do as we're told. From the open doorway, I can smell the burnt thing that they like to call porridge. Crusty on the surface, with uncooked lumps in the middle—yum. I can hardly wait.

We troop down the stairs and meet the girls at the landing. I see some of the youngest ones with red-rimmed eyes, their wispy hair tangled. Who abandoned them? It occurs to me that maybe they're only here because they've got no family anymore, but how do I know? I don't know if I'd rather be here or have relatives. On one hand, I don't believe that anyone, adult or kid, really cares about anyone else. But on the other, it would be nice to have even the illusion of affection.

I push the thoughts to the back of my mind. Fourteen years and not even one potential adoption. No one ever leaves this place. Why waste time daydreaming?

The "porridge" is predictably revolting, and I only eat a few bites. The rest I shove into my pockets, to be dumped outside on the way to the Reaping. I'll just find someone with inadequate attention later on. There are almost always a few. If that doesn't work, I can sneak into the kitchen. I've done it before, when times were rough. Even though it's disgusting, it's food. And the raw ingredients are better than the finished product of gruel, anyways.

Because it _is_ Reaping day, we get a few seconds of rest back upstairs in the dormitory. Normally we'd be cleaning every surface spotless, but today we can relax—not that anyone does. That's just about impossible.

I use the reprieve to empty my pockets out the window. I'm not the only one who does this, I know, but I am the most competent. Stealing. I've done it for years. With the stuff they give us here, what else can I do?

In place of the hidden food, I stuff a sock in my pocket. It is the only thing I own that's really mine, not something borrowed. I bring it every reaping, in hopes of good luck.

The orphanage is far from the square. Beza doesn't make us march in our lines when we go outside. I think she understands that we'd just be too hard to control out in the open air, although she just has to get it through her thick skull to threaten us with the whip, _again_, and we'll be little angels.

I sign my name when it's my turn. _Jay Rhine_ in my sloppy letters. All the orphanage kids have the same last name, so there's never been even a chance of pretending to be someone else. We stand restlessly through the Treaty of Treason and some additional words by Mayor Fir. A boy standing at the edge of another pen, talking to a girl, is getting the evil eye from a Peacekeeper, but he doesn't notice.

Rhana Klar goes to the podium and squawks, "Happy Hunger Games, everybody!" Yeah, right. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" She struts over to the girls' ball and picks out a slip. "Rose Ivory!"

The boy who's been talking goes pale. His girlfriend's breathing is harsh as she leaves her pen; I can hear it from where I'm standing. I can see her when she stands on the stage. Big brown eyes, brown hair, tan skin. A townie, of course. She can't be more than twelve. I wonder how much she gets to eat?

I'm trying to decide when Rhana goes over to the boys' glass ball. She grabs first slip her fingers touch. I feel the lucky sock in my pocket.

"Jay Rhine!"

I have a sudden urge to dump the sock on the ground. This is luck? You have _got_ to be kidding me. But I don't do that. I walk up to the stage where Rhana waits in ecstasy. "How wonderful!" she bubbles.

Then it hits me. Maybe this _is_ good, after all. I mean, say that I win. It's unlikely, but _what if_? Victors get all the money and food they could possibly want. So if I come out of the Games alive, then—then that'll be _me_. And as I look into the eyes of Rose Ivory, which are absolutely terrified, I know I'm going to have to kill her along with twenty-two others.

I'll do it in a heartbeat.


	14. District 8 Reapings

**A/N: When I started, I thought Bethanne's section would be about twice as long as Darwin's, but the opposite ended up happening...**

**Next update should be between Jan. 20th and Jan. 22nd.**

* * *

><p><strong>District Eight Reapings: Bethanne "Anne" Swartz<strong>

* * *

><p>My mother is knocking on my door, and it wakes me up. "Anne, honey? Can I come in?"<p>

I blink away the sleep. Ugh. I hate mornings. "Yeah."

She enters the bedroom. In her hand is a piece of yellow ribbon, which I've seen before. Just the sight of it makes my stomach turn over. But it's not until I see the expression on my mother's face that I remember what day it is…

My mother sits down on the side of my bed and tucks a curl of my dull orange hair behind my ear. Normally, I would brush her hand away, but today I let her do it.

I know why she has the ribbon, too. It's her worry ribbon. Some people use rocks, and some of the richest in the district have little bags of sand. My mother has a ribbon. She doesn't often take it out, but when she does, she is really upset.

"You ready for today?" she asks. "You weren't doing so well last year."

I can't resist rolling my eyes. "Mother. I'm thirteen now. I'm not afraid." Because the lie feels wrong, I sit up and give her a hug. "Anyways, what are the odds? One in a thousand, just about."

My mother purses her lips, but then she smiles. I think it seems forced. She touches my cheek and says, "Get dressed up, all right? We only have fifteen minutes. And don't forget, Harley's coming over for lunch afterwards."

"Right." My cheeks warm at the thought of him. We've been friends for a year or two, and now I think it might be _something more_.

My mother leaves, and I get out of bed. In the mirror, my brown eyes seem smaller than they usually do, which isn't very large. Already frustrated, I turn away and hunt through the closet for my Reaping dress. Finally, I find it, and pick a few balls of lint off of the fabric. I draw the curtains closed before changing.

When I look in the mirror again, my eyes are back to normal. The dress works wonders. It's dark red, with narrow straps. The hem falls to my knees and the entire thing hugs my body. I just look at myself for a few moments before I start to brush my hair. This only takes about thirty seconds because my hair is so thin. It's my father's hair, especially the color.

Right on cue, my father knocks on the door to my room. I run to open it, throwing my arms around him. "Good morning!"

He pretends to stagger backwards, laughing. I love my father's laugh. "Good morning." He extracts himself from my grip. "You look beautiful."

I blush. And when I blush, my entire _face_ goes pink. That's my father's, too. "Thanks." I look down the hall, where the smell of food is growing stronger. "What's for breakfast?"

"The last of the honey, on some bread," he tells me. "Thought we'd have a treat today." His voice is abruptly unhappy.

My spirits won't be dampened. "The honey? _Great!_" I run into the kitchen.

My mother is just drizzling the honey over warm slices of bread. She looks up and smiles. "It's almost ready, and then you can eat." She looks at the bread with a frustrated expression. "I don't know how good it will be, since the bread is—well, we—you know we haven't bought fresh bread for a few days." She clears her throat. "Anyways, I hope it's not too bad." She finishes with the honey and then slides a plate towards me.

I bite in, very conscious of her gaze. "It's great," I say when I've swallowed. Actually, the bread is rock hard. It's like eating sweetened stones—the honey saves the meal from becoming disastrous. But I don't really mind, today being what it is.

When I'm done with breakfast, I help my mother with the dishes. By the time that's through, my father has gone out to buy a few things we can't live without and my mother has to get dressed in her reaping clothes. She dresses up, even though she's much too old to be eligible, of course.

We leave as my father returns. With permission from both of them, I run ahead to the square. Maybe I shouldn't be excited to get there today—strike that, I _definitely_ shouldn't be excited to get there today—but I know that both Harley and my long-time best friend, Anna-Marie Colbus, will be waiting for me.

I sign my name, _Bethanne Swartz_, in the long list on the Peacekeepers' table, and take my spot. Out of the corner of my eye, I see my parents file into the sea of watching adults, but I'm not concentrating on them. I need to find… aha!

Anna-Marie spots me at the same time. "Anne! Where's Harley?" She winks at me, and I look around hastily to check if anyone saw. I do _not_ want every kid in school to know that Bethanne Swartz is in love with Harley Buckskin.

"No idea—wait, there he is." And it's true. He catches sight of me and waves. I think he tries to say something, but we're too far apart for me to be able to make out the words. Besides, he's not talking very loudly at all, since the Mayor has started his speech.

I don't really listen to the Treaty of Treason, but I snap to attention when our escort, Talbot Lisle, approaches the podium. "Happy Hunger Games," he says, "and may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" I actually don't mind Talbot, if not hating him as much as the President means 'not minding'. He just isn't so ridiculous as other escorts I see on the television.

After he says a few words, none of which holds any meaning for me, he plunges his hand into the girls' ball and pulls out one slip. I can't even think; it's as if my thoughts are all cockroaches that scatter under the bright light of my panic.

"Bethanne Swartz!"

My breath hitches automatically and I feel wetness between my eyelashes. Me? _Me?_ Anna-Marie is standing with her hands clamped over her mouth, eyes as wide as dinner plates.

"Bethanne Swartz?"

Now Talbot is uncertain. I hear my mother's voice in my head telling me that it's impolite to keep people waiting. I make my way through the crowd and up to the stage, my name still ringing in my ears.

* * *

><p><strong>District Eight Reapings: Darwin Leblanc<strong>

* * *

><p>I know exactly what day it is the moment I open my eyes. There's never any doubt that today is Reaping day. Not that the information means anything special to our family, but I know someone to whom this day is of the utmost importance. And sure enough—<p>

A bird whistles outside my window. After a few seconds, it repeats the same tune. I whistle back. Within moments, a face appears on the other side of the glass.

I'm already out of bed. I open the window just a crack. "Meet me at the usual spot," I murmur, though everyone's likely still fast asleep. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

I take a look at the suit hanging on my closet door, and my face twists in distaste. I wore the same thing last year; we may be well off compared to the majority of District 8's citizens, but we don't have so much wealth that we can afford to buy new reaping clothes each time around. Besides, who wants to spend anything more on the Capitol than what we already give up yearly?

I pull on work pants and a regular, every day, run-of-the-mill shirt. There should be enough time to come back later and change. Upstairs—my bedroom is in the basement, which is unusual in and of itself because most houses here only have one floor—I find the kitchen deserted. With my father's snores resounding reassuringly in my ears, I open a cabinet and pull out several slices of bread. Today, with all the distraction, I don't think anyone will miss them.

I pull a hunk of cheese out as well and wrap both it and the bread in a little bit of cloth. After a moment's hesitation, I grab two apples as well. They're expensive, even for my family, but it is Reaping day, after all. The thoughts bring an ugly, sarcastic smile to my lips.

The air outside is nice and warm, and I remember why I love summer, even if it does come with _today_. Everything smells good, or maybe it's the apples. The sky is bluer than I'd expect for so early in the day. Well, no—it's nine o'clock. Not early, but when everyone sleeps until the cows come home, it always seems earlier than it really is.

At the edge of District 8, there is a gap in the fence. It isn't much at all, little more than a crack, but I've learned how to pop it open wide enough for me to squeeze through. I pull the cloth sack through behind me, pick it up, and resume my little hike.

I hurry now. The land past the fence is flat, grassy field for about a hundred and fifty yards, give or take a few. I feel like a giant sign is floating above me, saying _HERE GOES DARWIN LEBLANC. PLEASE CATCH HIM BREAKING THE LAW._

But it's not as if I can just stay home. That hasn't been an option for years, and today it's unimaginable. When I reach the trees, finally, I see her waiting for me. Her big green eyes light up and she smiles wide. "You came. Thanks."

"Did you think I wouldn't?" I raise my eyebrows. "Darcy, it's been three years. Have I let you down yet?"

She shakes her head _no_, and takes the sack when I offer it. Upon opening it, she laughs aloud. "Apples! And cheese! Oh, wow—"

See, it's like this. When I was eight and Darcy was seven, we were best friends. Then, when she was nine and I was ten, her parents died in a factory fire. She was, as with every kid in her situation, sent to the orphanage. She didn't like that at all—I mean, who would? But it was either stay in that pit or run off into the ether, which was an impossibility. Even with a family, she was too skinny. The woods would kill her for sure.

So we worked out this arrangement—she slept nights at the orphanage, went to the town functions, and hid outside the fence during the day. I, bearing no grudge because she's the only person around whom I can be myself, have brought her food for the past three years. With that, and what she can glean from the forest, Darcy survives, and insists that she loves this life.

But today is Reaping day, and Darcy's twelve. It's her first year of eligibility. She only has her name in there once. We tried to take out tesserae rations—it was her idea, in spite of the danger in which it places her—but it turns out that you have to have a mother or father to sign the form. Darcy has neither.

I watch her eyes widen as she holds up an apple. The dark red skin is striking against her pale fingers. And then I realize she's holding it out to me.

"I don't need that," I say, waving it away. "It's your special day."

She makes a face at me. "Yes, and I've been dreaming of it for years. Praise the stars that it's finally here. You really don't want it?"

In truth, I'm hungry, but I can eat after the Reaping. "Nope. It's all yours."

"Thanks," she says again, and bites into it.

I sit on a fallen tree and tear off bits of bark while Darcy eats. When she finishes, we don't say anything for a long time. I'm starting to wonder what time it is. Are my parents awake yet? How about my sister, Amelia, the brat? Honestly, I've never met anyone who is more confident that they deserve to rule the world and that it's your fault they got stuck in a dump heap called Panem. In any case, if they're awake, they'll wonder where I am. It's not the first time they've woken up to find me missing, but today being what it is—

"Darwin?"

The voice is so small that I can barely believe it belongs to her. "Yeah? What's up?"

She stares at me with her knees drawn up to her chest. Beside her, the sack is empty. "I'm scared."

I shake my head. "They won't pick you. You're only twelve, your names only in there once. You're safe."

She reaches out and picks a blade of grass from the dirt. "But… I just keep wondering. What if?"

"'What if' is for people who have no hope," I say, quoting something her mother used to say to us.

She smiles a little. "Right. And you won't let me be hopeless."

I fold the cloth sack and put it in my pocket before standing up. "Not in your dreams."

Back inside the fence, no one sees us enter. They're all headed for the square. We join the throng and I notice how shabby Darcy's clothes are. She wears the orphanage uniform, but it's so scruffy from days in the forest that I only see the pattern because I know it's there.

"Hey," I say, "What if we stop by my house and you borrow something of Amelia's, just for today? I have to change, anyway," I add, remembering suddenly.

Darcy looks uncertain. "I don't know… what if we're late?"

"Then we're late." I shrug it off. I feel reckless today, with no idea why. Before she can say anything, I tug Darcy through the streets until we find my house. I look at her and realize something. "You haven't been here in a while, huh?"

She makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a cough. I drag her inside and down the hall to Amelia's bedroom. "You go pick something out," I say. "Contain your girly shrieks of delight. I'll be downstairs."

Darcy seems a little overwhelmed from simply being in this place, but I can see a smile emerging. "Okay."

In my room, I hurry to pull on the suit. Ugh. Besides being pretty darn ugly, it's seriously uncomfortable. I will never be at home in formal clothes. Good thing I live here and not in the Capitol, huh?

I yank a comb through my hair. Even though it's quite short, it's sticking out every which way from the wind, which is much stronger than when I left the house. My mother will kill me if I show up to the Reaping looking like this.

The Reaping.

I allow myself a moment of unease. It's not all consuming but it's strong enough to make me pause, staring into the mirror which my mother seems to have welded to the wall. What if—?

There's a knock on my door. "Darwin? I'm ready to go."

I force myself to turn around and smile. Open the door. Look natural, calm, totally all right with everything. "Wow. Not bad."

Darcy's wearing a white shirt and gray skirt that I don't recognize. I didn't know Amelia owned stuff like that. Probably because my mother would say that they're "much too drab" in that way that she has… whatever she means. Darcy, with her near white-blonde hair, looks like… Well, she looks like a _girl_.

She smiles. "You're not too shabby, yourself."

I make a _pshaw_ noise and we both head outside.

In the square, we're very, very late. I pry Darcy's hand from mine and take my place just as the Mayor finishes his speech and Talbot steps forward with his customary greeting. And then my whole body seizes up with one desperate wish—_Not Darcy. Not Darcy. Not Darcy._

"Bethanne Swartz."

Talbot has to call her name twice before she goes forward. I have almost every class with her in school. I don't know whether I am upset or glad. On one hand, Darcy's safe. But on the other, Bethanne's probably going to die. Why couldn't it be somebody else? While I'm on that train of thought, maybe I should examine the righteousness of this entire thing. I mean—

"Darwin Leblanc."

Oh. Well, then.

I can't feel my feet as I walk up to the stage. I knew it was Reaping Day. I knew what the odds were. Two in about three thousand. But here I am. Dreaming? No. Hallucinating? No. This is real. All of this is real.

I shake Bethanne's hand and face the stage. One face stands out at me from the crowd—Darcy, no expression whatsoever, but paler than I've ever seen her.

Much, much too real.


	15. District 9 Reapings

**A/N: Here it is, the District 9 Reapings... I'm taking an indefinite hiatus until I can revise some of my NaNoWriMo stuff, because there's an offer of 5 free copies until June 30th and I don't want to waste that chance on a rough draft that I'm not happy with. So, sorry guys. But this is not the end! There will be more, I promise you!**

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><p><strong>District Nine Reapings: Rohan Tahti<strong>

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><p>I drag myself out of bed and stumble over to the door, poking my head into the hallway. I can't remember why I've slept in. "Is there something going on today?" I call blearily. "'Cause Bryce'n'Wesley'n'Jordan are good company. I'll hang with them."<p>

Theo bangs something in the main room, but I can't see what it is. "You're kidding, right, Rohan? _Is there anything going on today?_" He laughs a bitter laugh without humor. "It's Reaping day, numbskull. But other than that, no. You're free until twelve thirty."

I withdraw into my room and sit on my mattress, which isn't much more than a sheet thrown over a bunch of pillows. My knees come up to my shoulders. Right now, I hug them to my chest and hold on tight. I can barely remember the details of Braden's face. We don't even have a picture in which to take comfort. Of course, even time hasn't dulled the sound of his screams as the Careers ripped him to pieces.

I hear Theo padding down the hall. He stops outside my door but doesn't knock. "You okay?"

I clear my throat. "Yeah. Fine."

He leaves.

My Reaping outfit this year is nothing special. The scruffy denim pants and white tank top look more or less the same as what I wear every day. The shoes I pulled from a dump heap last year. They were nice once, I think, but now my toes poke through and if it weren't for the extra-strong silver adhesive strips I filched, they'd be only shreds of fabric.

When I'm dressed, I shuffle into the main room. It's technically a kitchen, but really, we use it for everything but a bathroom. This house—no, shack—is so small that anything else would be a waste of space. Even with all of the cabinets and the two chairs shoved up against the walls, the room is tiny. The fireplace, filthy even underneath the soot, is too large.

"What time is it?" I ask. We have no clock, but Theo's very good at guessing, though I'm not.

"Probably around eleven or eleven thirty." Theo hands me a tesserae-ration biscuit. I push it away. I think that if I eat anything I'll throw it up before noon. Or worse, during the Reaping. And I am determined to do no such thing.

"Thanks but no thanks," I mumble, heading out the door.

The sunshine does not help my sour mood. On the contrary—it's mocking me. _Look how nice it is today, when nobody should be happy._ Why couldn't it start raining?

Since Theo and I work with the hunters rather than the merchants, we live near the woods. It's not as if we could ever run off, though. They lock the fence up much too tightly, and even now, I can hear the hum of electricity along the wires. Also, when we make the daily foray out into the wilderness, we have trackers clamped on our arms. Only a few specially elected Peacekeepers have the gadget that unlocks them.

So, there's no way to get out of this place. But that's not what I'm trying to do as I make my way toward the fence, a half hour away from home. I'm heading for the clump of trees that, like a misbehaving kid, stands just inside the confines of the district. That's where my partners in crime are always waiting.

Sure enough, when I slip into the shadowed space that's all but invisible from the outside, there they are. Bryce lies flat on his back, head on a patch of moss. Jordan leans, stretched out like a cat, against a tree trunk with Wesley's head on his stomach. They all jump up when I arrive. "Hey. We weren't sure you'd make it." Bryce sticks his tongue out at me. "You're later than usual."

"Shut up," I snap. "What's the harm in sleeping? We all need it. Today's one of the few times when we can get a little extra."

Bryce rolls his eyes. "Sheesh, Rohan. I didn't pull you out here by your hair, did I?" He sighs, as if he's deliberately putting all of this behind him. "You can leave if you want. But you'll be missing out on _my_ delightful companionship."

"Please," I drawl, sitting down on a knobby root. "The only one who thinks you're delightful is yourself."

"His mother loves him," Jordan teases. I must wince visibly, because he mumbles something that sounds like "sorry." I brush it away. Bryce is the only one in our little quartet that can get to me so quickly. I don't really mind either Jordan or Wesley.

Each of them resumes his previous position. I study Wesley and Jordan, practically in each other's arms. Our district doesn't really have a word for them, but nobody cares. _I_ certainly don't. I might even be happy for them. You know. If I were the loving type.

After several minutes, Wesley murmurs a question. I think he's talking to Jordan for a moment, but then he repeats it more loudly. "Anybody worried?"

Bryce snorts. As the oldest in our group, at eighteen, he has twenty-eight slips, what with the added tesserae rations for himself and his parents, but Wesley has one brother, not in school yet. So, that's thirty-one slips for him. I have thirteen, and I would have more if the last two years had gone more smoothly. I'd rather be in more danger than lose what I've lost. But, as Theo likes to say, keep the past behind you.

However, none of us can match Jordan. He's sixteen like me, but will have his name entered thirty-six times. His situation is really rare: both of his grandparents are still alive. I never came even close to meeting either of mine, but he lives with them as well as his four younger sisters. His parents are two of the least prosperous people in the district, even worse-off than Theo and me. With all the tesserae he takes out each year, plus the general accumulation, he's in trouble.

_There are thousands of slips,_ I tell myself. This goes for all of us.

But Jordan just shrugs, nonchalant as usual. Or maybe I'm just unobservant.

We talk about harmless topics—pranks we've pulled, jail time we've endured, the best food we've ever eaten. Everyone agrees that that moment came three years ago, when Ede Venna won the Games. The night she came back, every family had a feast. Of course, once the year of celebration was up, nothing could save us from poverty.

I poke my head out of our little shelter and see the faint forms of people walking together. "Come on, guys. Must be time for the Reaping."

It takes us more than half an hour to get to the square, and we don't talk once on the way. I can almost _feel_ the air getting tenser and tenser as we get closer. When we finally arrive, everything seems muffled. I sign in and take my spot with the sixteen-year-old girls. We look at each other nervously.

Not a minute later, Mayor Halftree starts the Treaty of Treason. I zone out, and from the glazed eyes all around me, so does everyone else. But we all snap to attention as Balthazar Gild, our escort, steps forward. "Happy Hunger Games!" he says cheerfully. "May the odds be _ever_ in your favor." He makes me sick, he's so happy all the time.

There's no time to think about that now. Balthazar steps energetically to the ball with the girls' names. _Thirteen slips,_ I think. _Thirteen slips in so many._

As it turns out, it doesn't matter how many slips there are. It's _my_ name Balthazar reads when he returns to the podium. "Rohan Tahti."

Immediately, an icy cold washes over my body. Everything fades until it's only me and my name, and my impending doom. I step forward as if in a dream, make my way to the podium in a trance.

I shake Balthazar's hand and look at the crowd. I can't see anyone I know, can't make out their faces. The odds are never in my family's favor. In my mind's eye, I see Braden standing up here. Was he as scared as I am? Probably more.

Beside me, Balthazar is saying something. "Congratulations!"

I have to laugh at that.

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><p><strong>District Nine Reapings: Max Tannon<strong>

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><p>It takes me a few minutes to wake up. I mean really wake up, not just have my eyes open. So I stumble around my room, pulling on whatever clothes I can find. My socks don't match, but what does it matter? When I'm somewhat presentable, I walk out into the hall, which is deserted. Well, of course. Everyone's downstairs already.<p>

I find my sister, Alley, in the back room, where the ovens are. She's pulling a tray of bread from one of them. I hear my parents talking up front, but I don't know if they have customers.

"Morning," Alley says, putting the tray on the counter. "How's life for you?"

She always greets me like this. I shrug. _Not bad_, I sign. I have to "talk" this way, because I've been mute since the day I was born. We don't have enough technology in District 9 to know why, but I manage. And I can laugh, at least.

She scrutinizes me with her gaze. "You're not scared?"

I sign, _no. I only have two slips._ We never take out any tesserae; we've never needed to. _Do you need help?_ If my mother and father don't have many customers, then that could be the only tray we bake all morning.

Alley shakes her head. "Not right now." As if she can read my mind—and I sometimes think she can do just that—she says, "These are for Ms. Hemmins's order. There's nobody up front."

I go to the front part of the store, where customers pay. My parents are talking quietly as my father counts pennies. I catch the words, "—just until today. Then we'll have to—oh! Good morning, Max!" My mother notices me and smiles as she opens her arms and hugs me. She releases me. "How did you sleep?"

I give her the "thumbs up" sign. I don't do much more than essential conversation with her when Alley's not around. My family tries to understand me, but my sister is the best at it. My mother can recognize only the bare minimum.

I shake my head when she asks if I'm scared. Really, I'm not. I mean, no, I don't _want_ to be Reaped, but I my name is two slips in thousands. The odds are very slim today.

Nothing significant happens all morning. Ms. Hemmins drops by to pick up her order of rolls, but she's the only customer. This isn't unusual, today being what it is. Mostly we just use the extra time to clean the ovens. My fingernails are black by the time we're finished.

At twelve fifteen, I change into my Reaping clothes, a pair of black slacks and a faded blue shirt. My mother tries to attack my curly brown hair with a wet comb, but I duck out of the way. Alley, on the other hand, is apparently having the worst hair day of her life, not that I would know anything about that. She takes so long that we barely get to the square on time.

Mayor Halftree gives us a long speech on the Treaty of Treason. Everyone around me spaces, but I listen. Well, I don't comprehend the words, but I hear his voice. I like listening to the tones and the way voices rise and fall. Call me crazy, but I just do.

Eventually, the speech is over and Balthazar Gild starts up. "Happy Hunger Games! May the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

Without hesitation, he plucks a girl's name from the jumble. I squeeze my eyes shut and hope desperately that it's not Alley. It can't be Alley. Please, don't let it be Alley—

"Rohan Tahti."

_Whew._ I breathe a sigh of relief and then remember that someone, a girl named Rohan, is in that spot now. I'm not relieved anymore.

Rohan turns out to be a tall, pale girl with wavy auburn hair and a scar on the side of her face. I wonder how that happened? She walks very smoothly to the stage and stares blankly at all of us.

Then Balthazar goes to the boys' Reaping ball and grabs a name. I clench my hands in fists. _Not me, not me, notmenotmenotme…_

"Max Tannon."

_What just happened?_

My name sounds very loud. But, to my surprise, it's not difficult to walk forward. Not difficult at all. I almost trip on the stairs, though. Then Balthazar congratulates me and I shake Rohan's hand. It's calloused, like mine, but hers is from hunting, not baking. I can already tell she's not from the town.

What was I saying this morning? Oh, that's right. That my chances were slim. I fight the urge to laugh because it's all so crazy. Who would have thought…?


	16. District 10 Reapings

**A/N: Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor! Who else got less than 3 hours of sleep last night? In case you couldn't tell, I'm ba-ack! I have indeed finished my book and now I'm back in business :) I'm so excited to get into this again. And I'm sorry it took _so long_. Believe me, I was working hard.**

**If anyone wants to gush about the movie with me, or tell me what you hated about it, or anything, I'm open! I'm dying to discuss it...**

**Next update should be around April 6-8.**

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><p><strong>District 10 Reapings: Fennel Moore<strong>

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><p>As usual, I wake to Avan's summons. What's unusual, though, is the light that I can see through my eyelids. How late is it? I open my eyes and sit up. The sun is already up and—gosh, I'm hungry.<p>

"I'm up," I call to get my brother to stop. "What time is it?"

Since my door's open, his answer is easy to hear. "Eleven thirty. Breakfast is ready when you are."

I close my door to get dressed. Avan is one of the junior Peacekeepers, so today he can start later than some of his higher-ranking colleagues. That means sleeping in for once. Unfortunately, it also means eating hours later than usual.

When I'm wearing my usual short sleeves and pants, I head into the kitchen. To my surprise, my parents are there. Most of the time they're working. "Morning," I say as I grab the hot cereal and begin to eat. It burns my tongue at first, but I don't care. It's food.

We're pretty well off for our district. With Avan as a rare exception to the Peacekeepers-are-from-District-2 rule, which, by the way, is almost _never_ broken, we have enough money to get by. However, my parents are still working at the same jobs they've had since they were my age to try to get me a better future. I suppose I'm grateful, but I don't really see the point.

My father tells Avan, "Make sure you get her back by twelve thirty. She shouldn't be late." He doesn't say it, but I know both he and my mother are thinking, _again._ Even though we try our best, sometimes time gets away from Avan and me. And it's not really my fault that a lot of people like to steal on Reaping day, is it?

No.

We head to the Justice building first as always to pick up Avan's gun. Technically, I'm not supposed to come with him there or anywhere else, but it's been four years and I've never caused trouble, so mostly the officials just ignore me.

After that we walk a circuit of the district. It's quiet with almost everyone still in bed. Avan walks in silence for several minutes before speaking. "You nervous?"

I watch the chickens pecking at the ground in someone's hutch nearby. "No," I say. It's the truth. I've never needed to take out tesserae since Avan got his first government check when I was only eleven. I can barely remember not having enough to eat—it hasn't been like that since I was about six. "My name's only in there four times. Why should I be?"

"Good point," he concedes. "Watch it." He inclines his head to someone walking in an alley several yards away. I train my eyes on the figure. We've reached the town part of the district now so there's a real threat of burglary.

When I see who it is, I exhale. "It's only Jemma," I say, naming a girl a few years younger than me. I see her every day at school.

"Can you tell what she's holding?" My eyes have always been better than Avan's, though he's only twenty-one.

I try to make it out. "Looks like… just an empty bag." My spine sparks with excitement as Jemma heads toward the apothecary. To me, she looks nervous. Twitchy.

Avan thinks so too, I can tell. He speeds up. "What's her last name?" he asks me quietly.

"Dubose," I reply just as softly.

"Miss Dubose," he calls more loudly. Jemma looks back and stops when she sees us. "What are you doing out here so early?" he asks, catching up. I tag along behind him.

"Buying," she says shortly. I can see her trying to figure out what we want—or is that fear? Why would she be afraid unless she had something to hide?

"Is that so?" he asks. "Why not wait until after the Reaping? I'm sure you'll get better business then, with more people out and about."

She hesitates a little before pulling some coins out of her pocket. "I'm going now because we need the medicine for my sister," she says, displaying the money.

"Good luck," my brother says, and we leave. The rest of the circuit, taking the remaining forty-five minutes, is spent in slightly tense silence. Whenever there's a faulty accusation, we both end up feeling irritated.

After Avan leaves me at the house again, I change into my reaping outfit. There's only half an hour left until the reaping. I give myself an once-over in the mirror: brown hair brushed, face washed, sage-green dress unwrinkled.

"Fennel? Can I come in?" my mother asks.

I make a noncommittal noise, since she's already halfway through the door already. When she is home, she doesn't leave me alone.

"You look nice," she says, looking at my reflection. "I have something you can wear to add a little sparkle." I look at her without saying anything, waiting. After a moment, she continues. "There's this pendant." She pulls out a silver chain with a jewel.

At this, I smile. She puts it in my hand and I take a closer look. The gem is a clear purple with a faceted surface. "What is it?" I ask. I've never seen something like this outside of pictures before—I certainly didn't know our family owned anything this precious.

"It's amethyst," she says. "My mother gave it to me, and I thought you might like to wear it."

"Thanks," I say, and for once I mean it. I fasten it in the back, brushing away her offer of help.

When I sign in at the square, Mayor Breyer is starting her speech. I take my place quietly and wait for her to finish. I see some girls talking together, but I don't seek anyone out. My brother is the only friend I need.

After what seems like hours, Mayor Breyer finishes and the escort, Xiel Metus, steps forward. "Happy Hunger Games, ladies and gentlemen!" he announces, beaming at us. "May the odds be ever in your favor!" As escorts go, he's not too bad, but still—he's from the Capitol.

He walks to the girls' lottery ball and plunges in a hand. I can see him digging deep into the mound of paper slips until he finally pulls one out. All I have in my mind is curiosity until he smooths the strip, reads it, and says, "Fennel Moore!"

Then the only thing I feel is shock. Me? _Me?_ But… I only had four slips! Just four! I realize I'm walking forward. Okay, I can do that. There's only one way to go, after all. Forward, toward whatever's waiting for me on the stage.

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><p><strong>District 10 Reapings: Colton McKenzie<strong>

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><p>"—and if you don't open this door in two seconds, Colton Bauer McKenzie, I will—Oh. Well, I'm glad you've decided to show your face. You do realize that it's already twelve o'clock?"<p>

I face my mother, sweating even in boxers and a tank. "Yeah. So?"

"So it's Reaping day, young man, and you _will not_ be late." With that, she's off down the hall to rouse my brothers, Avery and Sean.

Muttering under my breath, I go back into my room and, after slamming the door, flop onto the bed. It's August and in District 10, that means unbearable heat. I've heard that some of the houses in the more wealthy areas have air conditioning, but I've never set foot in any of those, so I can't even imagine it.

I snatch a few more minutes of sleep before my mother's back. "Colton! Up! I want you dressed in five minutes and in the kitchen in ten!" She raises her voice even louder. "You two, as well!" They echo my groans of dismay.

To my credit, I can actually find my Reaping outfit, though it takes a bit. Last year we were late because of that. It's a white button-down shirt and black slacks, with dress shoes. The collar is stifling so I leave it undone. Luckily, the sleeves on the shirt only go to my elbows. If they were any longer, I think I'd die of the heat.

By the time I've found the clothes and donned them, my ten minutes are up. My mother is almost hysterical now, but I dawdle on my way to the kitchen. When I get there, I see Sean tipping his chair onto the back two legs, balancing precariously as he eats a roll. Avery is slathering his own bread with the last of the jam.

"Hey!" I cannot believe this. "I _bought_ that, you know!" I snatch the nearly empty jar of fruit sauce away from him.

"Don't raise your voice," my mother admonishes.

"You know, ma, you've been yelling at us since you woke us up," Sean points out with his mouth full.

She doesn't answer in words, just making a frustrated noise and throwing her hands up in the air. "Fine. Your father will handle this. Roy, if you can't get them to listen to you, no one can!" She stalks out.

My father looks at us, and we look back. "All right, boys… eat your breakfast." He resumes filling out the charts for the livestock.

We take that as an invitation to bicker some more. When my mother comes back in her reaping clothes, she puts all the food away—we stare after it forlornly—and straightens our outfits, much to our displeasure. Then we're off to the town square, one big happy family.

I meet up with my friend Lawrence on the way. He's one of my crowd from school, but I actually can't stand the kid. I can't stand any of them, to be honest. But I put up with him, because I've figured out that if I play my cards right, he'll do practically anything. Most people are like that. Besides, my influence is pretty much the only quality of mine that's better than my brothers'.

In the square, after signing in—we're pretty late and Mayor Breyer is almost done with the Treaty of Treason—I ignore Lawrence's constant mutterings about the Reaping. He's from the town, so unlike me, he has no tesserae and only five slips. I have ten from the tesserae I've taken out at each chance I get.

Just when I think I'm going to die of irritation and heat, because the suit is really stifling, Xiel Metus steps up and Lawrence's voice stops abruptly. _Thank god._ After the greeting, Xiel pulls out a girl's name and reads it—Fennel Moore. I know her brother, the idiot Peacekeeper. Always accusing me of breaking the law when it was clearly just a slight misdemeanor. Fennel has none of her brother's brawn, but she doesn't look weak despite her thin frame. When she gets to the stage, she stands ramrod-straight and her gaze flits everywhere.

Then Xiel reads the boy's name. And it's mine. "Colton McKenzie." Xiel Metus just read my name. I'm the male tribute in the fifty-first Hunger Games. Huh. Never would have guessed that.

I'm not upset, though. I have some strength from working out and the general exertion from taking care of the bigger animals. Plus this is a chance I've dreamed of—if I win, and I'm already determined to do so, I will finally be better than my brothers. And nobody in District 10 is better than a Victor.

It's time for me to take the spotlight once and for all.

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><p><strong>Please review :) I love you guys!<strong>


	17. District 11 Reapings

**Here 'tis, everyone! The update was almost delayed for who knows how long, because I lost my flashdrive (clearly I found it again) and everything's going crazy with an exchange student from Germany, finals, and Easter. But all is well!**

**Also, this is something I don't usually do - make the second tribute's piece longer than the first. That's what happened here. Sorry, {I'm busy saving the world}, Zaire _spoke_ to me.**

**A NOTE THAT'S VERY IMPORTANT TO ANYONE WHO SUBMITTED TRIBUTES: I have artistic license. If your tribute has a billion conflicting traits, or you say they're poor but they've got the means to eat out every night, I'm going to change something. Just so you know. And unclear pieces with horrendous grammar will also probably be changed somewhat. If I can't figure out what you're saying, then you're kind of asking for it.**

**But I still love you all! Just that you submitted means you're my friend, grammar mistakes aside :D**

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><p><strong>District 11 Reapings: Riley Rynne<strong>

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><p>I am awake in a flash. When I sit up, my whole body aches and I have to just stay where I am for a moment. Ouch. I can feel every punch Sage landed on me yesterday.<p>

Katie is stirring, too, in this room we have to share. It's an uncomfortable arrangement with both of us so tense all the time. Katie is nineteen and thinks she's going to rule the house someday, despite all evidence to the contrary.

We dress in silence, but not in our Reaping clothes. It would be stupid to put them on so early when there will almost certainly be a beating before lunch. Maybe after, too. I don't know. I don't really care.

When I accidentally knock into Katie's elbow, I receive a vicious jab. Time to go. I scurry out into the hall before they notice me. Sage, my twin, is there. For once, he doesn't strike me. "Beautiful day," he says, and whistles. I cringe at the loud noise. "Aw, calm down. I'm not gonna do anything today."

Outwardly, I just lower my eyes. On the inside, I'm skeptical. Since when has he let a day go by without hitting me or anyone else in this house?

A door slams upstairs and it's enough to send me running into the kitchen in a panic. I set about making breakfast, the smell of eggs both nauseating and deliciously tempting to my hungry body. I don't touch the food. Going hungry is better than more bruises, or worse, broken bones. It's happened before.

My mother and father come in just as I slide their plates onto the table. Sage wanders in shortly after, but he only gets a few bites before my mother starts to yell at him for something he did two days ago.

I try to leave the room, but of course Katie is right there in the hallway, and my father sees, anyways. "Get back in here," he commands in his iron voice. I turn around to find he's risen from his chair. There's barely time to notice his raised hand before he's slapped me, hard. My head snaps to one side as white pain explodes across my vision, ringing in my ears. "Get your sister her food," he growls.

My left cheek aching, I do as I'm told. A nod from my father tells me I can go, and I don't waste my time doing so. I lean against the wall outside the kitchen. I can't handle this today, I can't, I can't, I just _can't_. So I go outside.

The sun makes me feel a little better. I go to the east side of District 11 right away. That's where my best friend, Danielle, lives. She's the only one who knows what my family does. She is, like most of the district's population, dark-skinned. My own pale face, blue eyes, and golden-brown hair stand out here. But Danielle never seems to notice.

Because of the size of the district, it takes half an hour to get there. She sees me coming and drops her scythe. For three years now, since I was thirteen, she's taught me small fighting moves with that weapon, just in case I ever get a chance. But of course that's never even been close to possible.

I get closer and it's clear my bruises are showing, though I'm wearing long sleeves and long pants despite the hot summer weather. It must be the one on my face from earlier today.

"Why?" she asks simply, taking my hand. Her skin is so dark that her bruises never show—but her family would never give her marks, anyways. Even though they have five children and a set of grandparents, they love each other. I wish I belonged there.

I shrug. "Don't ask me."

Danielle leads me into the house and gives me a wet rag to put on my cheek. The water is lukewarm but it still feels good. Better than I deserve.

She distracts me with talk of her family and some people from school until it's one o'clock. Then her mother, Liza, who's been in the room for the past hour, says quietly, "Do you think you ought to dress for the Reaping?"

As usual, my palms begin to sweat thinking of my house. It is not my home. This small shack, so much poorer than the large building where I live, is more of a home than the one I've grown in. Today my fear of the place itself overcomes the fear of punishment. I shake my head. "Please, no. No."

Liza smiles sympathetically. "All right." She turns and calls, "Time to go!" I refrain from flinching at the noise, already putting on my brave face. Nobody from the town or school knows about my family's problems, and I'm keeping it that way. Unconsciously, I straighten my back and brush my waist-length hair behind my ears.

Danielle's three brothers, Indigo, Erwin, and Ryker, come running. Erwin, thirteen, is holding the others' hands, who are only two and three. The little ones are jabbering unintelligibly. Erwin smiles at me. "Hey, Riley," he says over Indigo's high-pitched squeal.

"Hey, Riley," is echoed from the side window, where Aster, Danielle's seventeen-year-old sister, is leaning in. She clucks her tongue at the red mark on my face. "Sorry about that."

"It doesn't matter," I mumble. Danielle squeezes my hand and leads me outside, along with the rest of her family. We all go to the Reaping together, but the mood has turned from optimistic to apprehensive. Danielle, Erwin, and Aster have each taken out tesserae for themselves and each other, and their grandparents, who walk hand in hand behind us. Nobody speaks anymore, concentrating on what's coming.

Mayor Beech starts speaking literally seconds after Danielle and I step into the sixteen year olds' roped-off area. His speech is the usual—Panem is full of justice and the law must be upheld, the same rubbish we hear every year. I twiddle my thumbs until it's over.

Then our district's escort, Tavia Penne, steps up. "Happy Hunger Games!" she squeals, and I swear she's almost bouncing on the balls of her feet. I think she needs a paper bag, she's so excited. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Then she's zipping to the girls' ball and reaching in. I only have time for a hurried _not me, not Danielle_ before she reads out the name. "Riley Rynne!" She giggles breathlessly.

I feel like I've been punched, but I can't let it show. Extracting myself from Danielle's grip, which has suddenly turned vice-tight, I flip my hair back and make the climb to the stage. It must be a mile away. I can hear people whispering, mostly in my pen and the others close to my age. I'm well-known at school, not only because my skin is so fair but because to most people I must seem confident, strong, and in control—at least, that's what I try to look like.

Tavia beams at me on the stage and says, so quickly that it's difficult to make out her words through her accent, "Aren't you lucky!"

Even through my mask of bravery, I'm starting to breathe too quickly, but then I catch sight of my reflection in a camera lens. Eyes wide, lips parted. Panicky. I compose my face and smile winningly through the fear. "I certainly am."

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><p><strong>District 11 Reapings: Zaire Lest<strong>

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><p>I wake to the sound of someone crying. It takes all my effort to open my eyes and sit up, but I do it because that's who I have to be now—someone who does what's expected of him. I look at the other bed, much smaller than mine, and see Nalin reaching out to me.<p>

"Okay, squirt," I groan, getting up. When I pick him up, he latches on with all of his fragile two-year-old strength. "What's going on? You had a nightmare?"

He nods meekly, burying his face in my shirt.

"There's nothing to be scared of," I tell him. "You're perfectly safe." But, of course, he's not and never will be—in a decade he might be Reaped, and there's always the chance of an accident, like what happened to our father three weeks ago. I knew I ought to have kept Nalin out of the way when they brought his body back. I told Bryony to keep him and Juniper away, but they all saw. Now it's nightmares. "Don't be afraid," I murmur to him.

When he settles down, I put him back to bed. Judging by the light outside, it's about eleven o'clock. Two and a half hours until the Reaping. I go to the kitchen and find my mother already there. She turns to me and I see tear tracks on her face, but I pretend to ignore them.

"You're up early," she says softly. With the walls so thin in this place, you have to talk quietly to avoid waking the rest of the family. "It's Reaping day. You could sleep in."

"I have to go get Juniper's shoes fixed," I remind her. "Forrest said he'd be awake and ready for business. Why aren't _you_ in bed?" I add, holding her with my gaze.

She breaks eye contact, rubbing her hand over her swollen belly. "Just restless," she sighs, but I know the real answer—grief—and already regret the question.

I grab the pair of shoes from the floor, take all three of the coins from the rickety table, and kiss my mother on the cheek. "I'll be back before one," I promise her, and head out the door.

District 11 has unbearably hot summers and rather frigid winters. As much as I tell my brother and sisters that we can't be bothered by the weather, today I walk in the shade as much as possible. It's already sweltering. When I make it to the cobblers shop in town, after more than two miles of walking, it's a relief to step inside, out of the humid air.

From behind the counter, Forrest Arum, the cobbler's apprentice, nods at me in a friendly way. I incline my head stiffly in return. It is always difficult for me to relax in the town, where I'm so out of place. And almost everyone in this area has milky white skin, so I can't even pretend I'm one of them. I shake off the brooding and hold up the shoes. "I need these fixed by the Reaping." Juniper can't go there barefoot, and she sure can't work in the fields that way.

Forrest purses his lips as he inspects the little bit of the sole that's still hanging on. "What happened to them?" he asks.

"One of the dogs found 'em," I say. "Thought they tasted nice, I guess." Not our dogs, of course. We can barely keep ourselves fed, much less a pet. The Peacekeepers' dogs, though, are vicious and chew on anything they can find.

"It needs a lot of work," Forrest says, "but I can try to get it done in time. Can you pay?"

I bristle at the indignant tone. "Of course," I say tightly, and put the coins on the counter. There it is, all of the family's money, about to be given away. It will be another month until the tesserae rations are available again.

Forrest looks at the coins, and then at me, as if he knows exactly what's going on in my head. I raise my eyebrows, daring him to refuse payment.

After a long hesitation, he says, "All right. Come back before the Reaping and they'll be done." I'm almost out the door when he speaks again. "Good luck." The best I can manage is a noncommittal grunt.

Dealing with townies always puts me in a bad mood, and the Reaping is looming ever closer. As I ease back into familiar territory after another long walk, the sun tells me it's nearing twelve thirty. Among the winding alleys between hundreds of beaten-up shacks, I see someone coming towards me. As the person gets closer, I recognize Saffron. The heat waves shimmer along her silhouette until she's only a few yards away.

"Hot morning," she says softly, not meeting my eyes. I understand her hesitation. In the three weeks since my father's death, Saffron's kept her distance, and I haven't tried to seek her out. Now we're face-to-face on today of all days.

"Reminds me of the time we stole that ice." We were only eleven then, Bryony's age. The butcher had a big freezer for his meat, and we couldn't resist snatching some.

I see her face relax, and it makes me happy. What a rare thing to feel. "How is everyone?" she asks, still keeping her gaze lowered. "How are _you_?"

"Oh, you know," I say, trying to shove the weight off my chest. "We'll survive."

"You always do," she says, and embraces me. I return it, grateful.

I don't want to ask this, but I have to know. "How many times is your name in today?"

She meets my eyes. "Seventeen." I know she has to feed her father, herself, and her little cousin. "What about you?"

"Forty-four times," I admit. Five sisters, a brother, and my mother. And then myself. We have so little money from working in the fields, and we must use it for the clothes and soap and all the other things we need to live. Tesserae rations in this district are meager, but food is food. No one can survive without it.

Saffron furrows her brow. "So many," she mumbles, and then says, "But there are still thousands. Maybe millions."

"And it's the last time for us," I add encouragingly. I'm not afraid of the Reaping, but I know it worries her. "After today, we'll be done."

Someone calls her name in the distance, and Saffron looks back. "That's Poppy," she says, naming her cousin. "I'd better go. Good luck." With a peck on the cheek, she leaves.

"You, too!" I call after her, and wait just a moment longer before turning back towards home. Saffron and I met ages ago. It's only been a year, though, since we promised each other that we'd get married after our last Reaping. Assuming everything goes according to plan today, we'll be together in a few months. Neither of us wants to wait, but I can't leave my mother or the others so soon after my father's death. Not when Ma's so close to giving birth, either.

My sister Seeder greets me at the door. She's the second-eldest behind me, at fifteen. "Where are the shoes?" she asks immediately, focusing on my empty hands.

"I thought we could pick them up on the way to the Reaping," I say. "If not, I'll go ahead."

"There won't be enough time," she predicts. "You'd better get dressed now." I may be the oldest, acting as head of the family, but I think Seeder could give me a run for my money. She's tough.

My Reaping clothes are not mine—well, technically they are, but I can't think of them that way. My father's suit still smells faintly of him, and for a moment I have to blink away tears. I look in the cracked, spotted mirror that hangs in the hall. The elbows are patched and the cuffs are fraying. The material is thin with age. But it gives me the strength to smile as I help the younger ones dress.

When I enter the kitchen, Juniper and Nalin hanging from my hands and Bryony padding along behind me, my mother looks taken aback at the sight of me, although she was the one to suggest my outfit. I catch her wipe her eyes as she brushes her hair back.

Seeder pushes me out the door shortly thereafter, and I walk into town again, leaving my family behind. They'll follow. Walking faster this time, I make it to the cobblers' shop in less time.

"Here they are," Forrest says, plunking the shoes on the counter. "And this, too. You paid too much."

I look at the coin he shoves at me. I gave him exactly the right amount. I know because I was the one who saved up for the repair. But here this townie is trying to give my money back to me. I wrinkle my nose at him, insulted—but as much as my pride hurts, I can't afford to overlook the chance. "Thanks," I say coldly, and slip the coin into the pocket of the suit before picking up the shoes. I hate charity, and even more, I hate accepting it.

Before I can leave the shop, a little girl runs out of the back room. She dashes around the counter and then stops, staring up at me with big eyes. Her skin is fair, but not like Forrest's. It's somewhere between his and mine. Her hair is as kinky as Seeder's, Saffron's, and my mother's. There are almost no mixed kids in the District, so I'm surprised.

"Good luck," she says.

"Don't—" Forrest starts to say, but I wave his protest aside. It's not as if I'd hurt a kid. Besides, I can guess who this is: Forrest's stepsister. But I don't know her.

I crouch down. "What's your name?" I ask softly.

She mumbles something that sounds like, "Kennedia."

"That's a nice name," I tell her, and she smiles. "How old are you, Kennedia?"

"Five and a half," she says proudly, yet shyly at the same time.

I stifle a chuckle. "Well, thank you," I say, ruffling her hair. The beads in her braids make a _clack_ noise as they move. "Good luck to you, too." I shake her little hand, and she runs off again. I stand to see Forrest watching me intently. "What?" I demand.

"Nothing," he says quickly. "You're just… good with kids, I guess."

All of my annoyance returns. "Yeah, well," I say lamely, and walk out.

It's exactly one thirty when I enter the eighteen-year-olds' pen, Juniper having slipped into her newly-mended shoes only minutes before. Mayor Beech starts his Treaty of Treason speech, and I don't listen to a word. Instead, I try to think about how I can get my family through the next weeks. Things are so tough already, and I can't see them getting any easier.

Then the escort, Tavia Penne, steps up. Her shaved head displays more of her skin, which is dyed a deep blue. She's so alien that I snigger as she greets us with her, "May the odds be _ever_ in your favor!" Then she plunges her hand into the girls' reaping ball. I think of Seeder and Saffron, hoping with all my might that it's not either of them. And it's not: It's a townie by the name of Riley Rynne. She's skinny and, though I hate to admit it, not all that bad-looking, with golden-brown hair to her waist and piercing blue eyes. I think I see a flash of something weak in her eyes before she lifts her chin and _smiles_ at Tavia.

I can't dwell on my disgust at this girl. I twist and smile at Saffron, glad that she and my sister made it through another year. But then I'm taken completely by surprise as Tavia calls out, "Zaire Lest!" with a little giggle.

Since I'm still looking at her, I see Saffron's face twist in horror, but I turn away quickly. I never really thought this would happen, I didn't. Though I knew it could, I didn't believe it _would_. But it has. I square my shoulders. Nalin, Juniper, Bryony, Seeder, and my mother are watching. I have to be strong for my family. So I climb the stairs to the stage. As I see the girl, Riley, staring at me, and the crowd as well, I know: I have to come home. There's no other choice. And I will do whatever it takes.


	18. District 12 Reapings

**A/N: Oh my goodness, it's been ages. I can't tell you how sorry I am. I _can_ tell you that I'm psyched to be done with the Reapings, and that if you haven't deserted me yet, you are incredible. Sorry for the wait, folks, but though I'll _try_ to update more regularly, I can't do the biweekly thing anymore, at least not right now. Finals, Germany, summer camp. They be monsters.**

**Edit: Thanks to FullofHunger, I've edited a few mistakes. And some other stuff. Hopefully she likes it.**

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><p><strong>District 12 Reapings: Miaka Florence<strong>

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><p>I wake up to them arguing again. My parents. It seems like this time of year that's all they do, though of course they argue pretty much every other day as well. But right now, today, I can't blame them. The minute my eyes open memories of my brother Connolly ambush my thoughts. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter than they already are. <em>Five years<em>. It's been five years and I still can't get him out of my head.

But he doesn't go away, so I have no choice to get up. At least I've slept in, I reflect, observing the pattern of sunlight on my bare legs. The year after Connolly's Games I woke up before dawn and had several extra hours to endure.

The old wooden floor is warm on my toes when I step out of bed. The nightshirt I'm wearing, an old thing of my father's, is something I should probably have thrown out years ago, but in the Seam you don't throw anything out until it's absolutely useless. I pull on a pair of holey pants and shuffle into the hall, still blinking sleep and memories from my eyes.

When I'm outside the main room, the only one that's not a bedroom or bathroom, a particularly loud exclamation from my father makes me jump. I hear my mother answer him. "But you have to be quiet today, Harrison."

I step into the room as he says forcefully, "It doesn't make any difference! No matter _what_ we do, how _hard_ we try—"

"I can't lose Miaka!" my mother all but screams.

"Um," I say, barely loud enough to be heard, even in the abrupt silence. My mother whips around.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbles, and reaches out to touch my hair, tucking a dark brown lock behind my ear. She knows I hate it when they fight.

I shrug and move awkwardly out from under her hand. "'S fine." It's not, of course. But what am I going to say?

Breakfast is quiet and tense. I can no more forget what I heard than live without oxygen. See, my father's got a big mouth, and he hates the Capitol. Never a good combination. He's in danger of having his tongue cut out, since the Peacekeepers think he's trying to start a rebellion or something. Stupid, I know. But it scares the life out of my mother and on days like today she thinks he's especially liable to endanger the rest of us.

After I finish the meager gruel from tesserae grain, I look up to see both of my parents watching me like hawks. I set down my spoon. "What?"

My father looks at my mother and then at me again before reaching out to take my hand. "You be careful today, Miaka."

I have to stifle a crazy laugh at the irony of that, but I manage to sound sincere. "All right, Dad. I will." I do mean it, at least a little. But I can't help thinking that _I'm_ not the one who should be careful.

"We love you," my mother says suddenly. "We love you so much…"

I go from almost laughing to almost crying, because I know it's Connolly's death that's prompting this. "Right. Right." I have to get out of here or I'm going to burst into tears. "I'm… gonna go get dressed."

Back in the bedroom, I lean my head against the door and struggle to breath. _Five years,_ again. My big brother, dead, haunting me every day. Taking a deep breath, I straighten up, go over to the lopsided, unstable dresser, and take out my reaping outfit, a fading green sleeveless dress. It goes to my knees and when I put it on I feel naked, which is stupid, but today everything is weird.

Just as I get into the main room, someone knocks on the front door. Because my parents are both now getting ready in our shared bedroom, I answer.

"Good morning," says Marko, my next-door neighbor, cheerfully. I suppose he's my best friend, but he's also my worst friend, because he's the only one I've got. I'm not exactly overly social.

He doesn't know about Connolly; I've never told him. For this reason I force a smile, hoping it looks right. "Hey. Come on in. I'll be just a second."

Marko's from the Seam, too, so I don't care about the glassless windows or the dents in the floor and walls. He shifts his weight from foot to foot as I pull on my shoes, things I've had for years. Good thing I'm fairly small. I can see that Marko's nervous, for all of his seeming lightheartedness. Reaping day.

I sigh. "Hey, Mom, Dad, I'm gonna go into town with Marko, all right?" I call. "I'll see you there." I don't have to yell very loudly; the walls are thin.

The response, "Sure," comes a second later. I'm a little surprised they're letting me go, but I'm not going to argue.

"Let's go," I say, hurrying out the door. It's so hot today that I can feel myself begin to sweat immediately.

Marko doesn't try to make conversation for once. I don't really blame him. When we sign in he catches my eye and smiles, just a little. I try to return it but can't.

It's only a few minutes until the ceremony starts. I see my parents file in with many other adults. They both wave, but it looks stupid, so I just nod. Then the new mayor, Mayor Undersee, does his spiel. I zone out, just like every year. It looks like the Victor from last year, somebody Abernathy, is just as bored. I think he's asleep, actually.

Finally the escort steps up. I _hate_ him. Vamos Ivory. I still remember the way he shook Connolly's hand, and how he didn't let anything through when he was in the arena, even though there were sponsors.

Vamos laughs at his own joke; I don't hear it as I'm busy grinding my teeth. But I snap to attention when he heads to the girls' reaping ball and plucks a name off the top. Back at the podium, he reads it out: "Miaka Florence."

My mother screams, pure anguish. I feel like a one-legged fat man in a high-heeled shoe is standing on my chest. Me? _Me?_ Impossible... yet it's happened. I struggle to keep from screaming myself as I remember what Connolly did when his name was called. He kept walking, straight and tall, though I could see how shaken he was. But I won't disappoint him. I stiffen my shoulders and stride up to the stage.

"Why, hello, dear," says Vamos. I make a huge effort not to flinch away from his arm around my shoulders, and take a gasping breath as my concentration on normal breathing lessens. Ugh, Vamos has been eating something garlicky. "How are you today?"

"I, uh—I'm good," I say, nodding too much. My mother's still sobbing, the sound carrying out over the silent crowd. I wish she'd stop, but I understand. The only thing worse than having a brother who bites it in the Games is having a son who bites it in the Games. And the only thing worse than that is having your daughter do the same. And I know that's what's gonna happen to me. I don't stand a chance.

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><p><strong>District 12 Reapings: Toth Spronk<strong>

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><p>"Yee-ha!" I burst out into the hallway, my door slamming into the wall and bouncing back. "It is <em>good<em> to be _alive_."

"Shut up, Toth," Lissa yells from her room. "We're trying to _sleep_."

I amble over to the door of the room she shares with our mother. "Sleeping is overrated," I inform her. "Besides, it's past noon."

"What?" My mother opens the door right away.

"It's one o'clock, mother dear," I say, singsong.

She sighs. "Please quiet down, just a little," she says. I subside. "All right, make your sister breakfast. Do we have anything left?"

"Yeah. There's still—"

"I can make my own breakfast," Lissa says haughtily, pushing past both of us.

Jeez, can't I finish a sentence? "Well," I say when she's gone. "That was… rude. Considering what day it is."

"Please, Toth," my mother says quietly. "Just—not today, all right?"

I feel a little guilty. Maybe I should leave. "Yeah, sure, Mom." I start backing up. "I'm just gonna—um, well, Martin's waiting for me, so I'll see you in the square, all right?"

"Wait—"

But I'm already out the door. I know I've hurt her feelings, so I'll have to apologize tonight. I'm not really worried about the reaping, since my name's only been entered twenty times counting tesserae rations. So there's a good chance I'll be here for dinner.

Martin Hamen is my best friend, but I'm not sure if he's even awake. Most people sleep in as late as possible on Reaping Day. Though Martin and I aren't working in the mines yet, we're still tired at the end of the day. I'm an early riser, but it occurs to me that I don't know if Martin likes to sleep late.

_Whatever._ It's not like I can just turn around and go home. I knock on Martin's first floor window. He opens it and I summersault inside. "Hello, hello, hello!" I say, not too loudly.

"Mornin'," Martin groans. He stares at me. "Why are you in my room?"

"Had to get away from the house," I say. "The goblin was acting up."

"Ah." We're of the same mind about Lissa. "But… why my room? There is a front door, you know."

"I wasn't sure who was awake."

"_I'm_ awake," comes a voice in the doorway. Jezzabella Hamen, Martin's younger sister, smiles. "Hey, Toth."

"Hi, Jez." While I don't know her as well as I do Martin, Jez is one of my favorite people. And between you and me, that's a difficult list to get on.

"Is there a party in my room?" Martin grumbles. So. _Not_ a morning person. I make a mental note to remember that.

"It's a special day," I remind him. "It's proper to celebrate."

"Ha, yeah right," Martin scoffs. "Celebrate, my foot. I'd rather be sleeping."

"My, you _do_ like to complain, don't you?" I turn to Jez. "Is he always like this? I seem to remember him being a bit more cheerful most of the time."

Jez rolls her eyes at me. "You know it's Reaping day. I'm surprised you're in such a good mood. You realize you could be dead in a week, don't you? If you're picked?"

"I could be dead every day," I remind her. "It's not as if we live in the Capitol."

"But who'd want to live there?" Martin demands. "I mean, yes, they've got everything, but—"

"No, no, no, not today," Jez interrupts. "Just don't, all right?"

Martin heaves a sigh. "Fine. What time is it?"

Jez sticks her head into the hall to check the one clock in the house. "One-thirty."

"That explains why I'm starving."

Shortly thereafter, I find myself finishing a delightful meal (Breakfast? Lunch?) of tesserae gruel and watered-down goat's milk. No, not really. Delightful is a stretch. But it's exactly what I'd be having at home—what I _have_ had for the past sixteen years—so I don't particularly care.

Martin and Jez's parents joined us just as we sat down, and we all troop to the square together. I know most people dress up for the Reaping, but in our area of the Seam, it's not an option. Why spend money that you can't live without on an outfit you only wear twice a year, for the Reaping and the Victory Tour?

Mayor Undersee is just starting his speech when we sign in. While he talks, I look around for my mother. She's bound to be having a mild panic attack. She's been this fragile ever since I can remember, though I've been told that before my father died, she was stronger. I was only four, so I don't have anything else to go on. When I catch her eye, she looks relieved, and mouths _love you._ I manage a thumbs-up in return.

"Good day, ladies and gentlemen!" Vamos Ivory, the escort for Twelve, has always had a bit of a stiff manner. It sets my teeth on edge. He says something unintelligible and then laughs like a hyena.

"Can you _believe_ this guy?" Martin mutters, standing next to me. "He's the only person I can think of who can be completely fake and still act so darn _real_."

"Mmm," I reply, because now I'm concentrating on hoping as hard as I can that the girl's name Vamos is about to call isn't _Outlissa Spronk._ Because when it comes down to it, she _is_ my sister. There's no getting around it. I can tell that Martin's hoping the name isn't _Jezzabella Hamen_, either.

We're both in luck. It's a girl named Miaka Florence, and I can safely say I've never seen her before, but the name sounds familiar, though I can't remember why. She's got a ramrod-straight back and someone, it must be her mother, screams when her name is called. I don't feel anything but sympathy for the woman because I know that's what would happen if it were Lissa or me up there.

Then Vamos grabs a slip of paper with a boy's name on it, and I'm hoping desperately it's not me or Martin. When he reads it I can't understand what he's said—literally. He really needs to enunciate. And no one screamed, so it can't be me.

No one moves. Martin is staring at me. Vamos repeats the name. "Toth Spronk."

Wait, what? Are you kidding me? I stare back at Martin. This can't be happening. Twenty times - only twenty. I can think of a dozen kids who've got more. Meanwhile, Vamos says my name for a third time. As if for help, I search Martin's face. He's got this really blank look on. I do my best to mirror it before I walk up onto the stage. The girl, Miaka, watches me with wide eyes as her mother sobs.

"How do you feel, Toth?" asks Vamos.

I smile at him, shakily. "I'm ready," I say. And I suppose I'll have to be.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Did you catch the two lines from _The Fault in Our Stars_ by John Green? If you did, are you a nerdfighter like me? Hint - they're both in Miaka's section.**


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